11/30

the morning

slow rise, simple.

I didn’t read or write, nor stretch. I got up and checked my phone. Two friends about the surf, my mother, and a message from the potential apartment down south.

A reset, a shower for me, a bath for the little guy. Laying in the sun to dry. Mango, water, guitar: João Gilberto. More phone, crossing ts, dotting is. Could be nice to go swimming today. I will stretch and breathe before I leave. probably go slow, make breakfast.

I’m in a process. A shedding of the me that desired so desperately to be accepted by my family. A me that contorted myself to some idea of a woman in order to be with a man who couldn’t see me for anything more than a clumsy girl, whom - ironically - had no qualms dropping, and picking up again when he felt lonely or bored. And I, ravaging for delusional love, would devote myself to participating in this cycle.

It’s really so strange, to be healing from love. So much of it, initiation, and at it’s core, in the grand scheme, holy. It brought me closer to women whom I love and cherish, despite his divisive narratives filling my head. It stretched me and demanded that I question reality (as if I wasn’t already) Yet still, even further. It beckoned that I move from my heart, even when logic spoke opposite. It demanded that I learn how to rebuild myself from the ground up. From feeling like nothing and no one, once again, I rise. I chose to suffer, blissfully. Accepting an ungodly pace for something I can’t show for. I felt purposeful, every once in a while. When I would rise out of my drama to meet the moment and contemplate something bigger for us all. He beckoned that. A systems thinker. My favorite kind of guy.