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Resurrection.  Reinvention.   Recovery.

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I hate my life.

It sounds so stupid, like the irrational, overwhelmingly emotional rhetoric of a preteen throwing a temper tantrum.

I hate my life.
It’s a truth I’ve avoided for years for fear of being childish, like identifying my dissatisfaction with my circumstances in some way negated my maturity, like it invalidated every experience (change, lesson, choice, sacrifice) since infancy.

So instead of just admitting that I was profoundly miserable, I swept it under the rug. Smiling and settling and sinking deeper into the idea that this is all there is, just empty, meaningless stretches of time to fill a predesigned template with another carbon copy while I quietly wait to die. Just like everyone else.

I don’t know if I’ve made this obvious yet, but I am not a patient person.

I’m also not very good at colouring in the lines, following a map, or existing without meaning. I’m an existentialist, I crave meaning, and my failure to find it where I’d been conditioned to believe I had to exist, within a construct I didn’t fully understand, had me losing the things that gave me my meaning to a void that, had always been there but, seemed to be reaching black whole density.

I guess I overcompensated for that feeling of failure, I got too quiet, like maybe my silence would be enough to hide what I’d been taught to believe were my glaring deficiencies.

They weren’t. They were my strengths.

The very framework of who I am, who I wanted to be, crushed and misshapen under the weight of expectations I never held for myself and couldn’t escape.

And then everything changed, slowly and somehow all at once.

I could (and probably will,) say a lot about the avalanche of shit that came crashing down on my life in the last 2 years.

About the diagnosis, the divorce (okay, we weren’t technically married but 5 years into a lesbian relationship is about as married as it gets!), my dawning realisation that I’d become the thing I feared most.

A ghost with a heartbeat.

The echo of a person.

I won’t sugarcoat it, it was a horrible understanding to come to. Lonely and heartbreaking and filled with soul deep dread.

My whole damned world burnt to the ground around me and while I stood in the flames, thawing slightly for the first time in longer than I want to admit i’d been frozen, I realised that this wasn’t the tragedy I was so desperately afraid of.

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This was a gift. A painful, terrifying, unbearably sad gift I hadn’t wanted and couldn’t return, but a gift none the less.

So instead of fighting the fire,

I fed it.

I let the heat of my rage spark against the pyre that I’d been letting people who shouldn’t  have been in my life slowly build beneath my feet, let it fuel the devastation spreading in waves of fiercely claimed freedom.

There’s something to be said for being the epicentre of a destruction level event, a clarity of vision that I’ve only ever found at the eye of the storm.

I took my cues from the wisdom of nature and accepted that for new growth to truly take hold, first I had to clear the strangling layer of decay that was keeping it from ever seeing sunlight.

Scorched earth became more than a metaphor, it became my mantra and the first stage in what I’m affectionately thinking of as my ultimate DIY project.

Now that the smoke is finally starting to clear, (minus the perpetual cloud of pot & incense that now permeates my home), I’m taking the time to take a serious and unbiased look at the charred remains and spend some real time clearing and solidifying my foundations.

It’s been a long, twisted road to get here, to this place where I can finally just say fuck it, where I’m less afraid of being alone than I am of being erased.

I’m done losing at someone else’s game, and I never did care much for rules anyway.

And so I suppose the really scary part begins, now I have to figure out what the hell to build, which path to take and how the fuck to actually grow (as) anything at all.

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Wish me luck?

I get the feeling I’ll need it.

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