The Authenticity of Pain

A year ago, I experienced a loss. I'm starting to realize this time of year is going to be hard for me because I am triggered by memories of grief. It's the breeze coming through my window some mornings that remind me of whole days spent in bed. It's the sounds of laughter rippling in the New York air that remind me of the bathrooms I cried in. It's the tree outside my window that has grown all its leaves back. The same tree I would look at as I forced myself out my room. 

In the year since, so much has happened. I have fallen in and out of myself in ways unknown. I have walked into love. I've walked out of anger. I have practiced vulnerability in a way, that I thought impossible. I have written for hours and days. I have not touched a pen in weeks. I have worn my pain on my sleeve. I have hidden my pain in the crevices of my heart.

The woman I am now would have the woman I was before, reveling in her strength. And reveling in her ability to be weak. The woman before now thought crying was a sign of defeat, and the woman now who cries and still gets up is my hero. 

There are a lot of people who have been supportive and also critical in my ability to heal. If I have learned nothing else, it's that healing is not linear. It's that sometimes I still cry for my loss and that I have broken the confines of the woman I was before. That this was enough to break me and I am still going. Some days are amazing and I forget a loss ever happened. Some days I remember. Its getting easier, its better now. 

This idea of loss was new for a lot of the people who read and heard about it. Some people opened their hearts to me. Some people wished I stopped writing about it, or thought that I was doing a lot. Some people felt both. I have realized that it is often those who feel uncomfortable or bothered by my words are ones who have yet to realize the strength in feeling a lot. I have changed and some people chose to not be around for that. I had to let them leave. That hurts. It always does. But, I will always leave for room for a return and a renewal. We're all human. 

I used to revel in silence, used it as my tool, but I never felt complete. It was when I started to yell, cry, talk, and write, that I felt whole. 

It was when I rambled on about my feelings without worrying about context that I felt the air rushing to my lungs. It was when I told people I was hurt or that I loved them, that I started to see clearly. It was when I cried on a subway train, that my body was contracting with freedom. I would be lying to you if I said I still don't hurt. That I still don't think of alternate realities in which my pain was not a catalyst for the place I am now and the place others are now. I would be lying if I didn't admit that I cried while writing this on a crowded subway train one morning. But I have made progress since last year and that is enough for me. 

I am trying to be authentic in every way. I am trying to be a woman for me and only me. Because only when I have mastered the art of me, can I be useful to anyone else. I can't please society or people who have expectations of me I can't meet. I can't please people who are not ready to come to this place of in depth self knowledge. I can't force anyone to meet me where I am. 

I still laugh, I still dance, I still belt songs out with my friends. I still post pretty pictures of myself and I still find joy in life. It's not all sad, I am not defined by my sadness. I am not defined by the way I have grieved. My loss and the year since have been defining moments for me, but have not defined me. 

I am creating myself everyday.

Taking my time. 

Day by day. 

Thank you for reading my first post, it means a lot. Every Friday I will post a new piece on my homepage, that will relate to a topic of my choice. I hope you will explore the other pages, as there are pieces of poetry, short stories, and essays. Once again thank you and see you next Friday! 

Marquita