Destruction. This concept is where this story began and where it ends. Where I was flighty and fiery to him and for him, she was mundane and accessible, like microwaved food. Readily available. Easy bake. Her only garnish, her age and flexible schedule. As food that is cured, well seasoned, and highly reviewed, I exist at the other end of spectrum from this woman whose name I still don’t know because she has harassed me under too many names to count. So, let’s start with the parts of the story I do know.
Here are the facts.
I became infatuated with someone far younger. A week or two in, he cut ties with a woman closer to his age that he said he’d been dealing with for a few months. He had little else to say about it or her, so from the beginning I just assumed that she was unremarkable.
I was mostly right, too.
Desensitizing yourself to someone else’s drama doesn’t make you callous, it protects your peace. Doing so doesn’t mean that you’re unable to be empathetic anymore, but it does mean that you’ve become wise enough to discern if someone has too many issues to empathize with, i.e., perpetual drama.
Summer was euphoric. It burned brightly and waned as summer always does. Now, I’m in my season of harvest and there’s death all around me in a beautiful way. For each leaf that hits the ground I’m reminded that even though I have to push forward, I don’t have to allow myself to veer off into an aurora. The lights will always be there, flashing and flickering. Fun will always be there, swirling in limes and rose colored spirals around me. And if I choose to, I can spin and bask in those spirals until I lose my sense of direction and time again. But like I said before, it’s harvest season. I have a pact with self, a pact with God, and work that I’m more than ready to do.
Lunar eclipses are a good time for emancipation from old things, cleansing. Unfortunately, it’s not always easy to initiate cleanses in your life. People on the other side of it may read your step forward as a blow their ego, leaving you to feel like the villain. But trust your own process, because after the backlash comes joy, which means that sometimes, it’s totally worth it to play the villain for awhile.
It took me a long time to write this because I moved on a falsehood, ya’ll. So let me break this down.
I stared at her words for a long time, considering them. Flipping them over in my head and examining them as one would a rare coin in their hands. Read More
The first weeks of spring were marked by cold and rainy days, so when the sun came out in full force, my friends and I decided to bask in it. I called my little sister (AKA “Patron Saint of Planning Shit”), slicked my hair into ponytail with styled edges, and jumped into a backless romper with tall heels. When I walked into the house her boyfriend shares with his two friends, I was stoked to find all there there punting around ideas about how to best take in some sun. Everyone was smiling and laughing. Someone put out a spread of wings. Another paired their phone to a large speaker. For the first time that week, I felt relaxed.
And then I saw him.
He bounded down the stairs in a floral hoodie and grey joggers and we just stared at each other. Stared and stared until we finally talked to each other. Then we exchanged numbers and, to my disbelief, texted and called each other every day after that. Finally, he did the one thing that no one else had done in the three years I was single: he asked me how I felt about him, and if I could see myself being with him. And the craziest part was, I actually could. Read More
With a glass of champagne in one hand and my phone in the other, I casually snapped shots of party goers as they chatted, played cards, or lamented the political climate. At the dining area table, one group had brilliantly blended all three. As I darted between both rooms of the suite my sister and I were only able to afford because we booked months in advance and used disposable flatware left over from my mom’s haaj celebration, I couldn’t help but feel like a curly-coiffed, glittering ball of black magic. At times I caught my reflection in the arrangement of beveled, hexagonal mirrors that adorned the wall near the bar, and paused to admire the new lines and curves of my arms and legs. All of it earned from several rigorous weeks of pole dancing classes. So this is 35? I let the thought wash over me in a gentle way this time, and the apprehension I felt when I celebrated my actual birthday in Costa Rica a few months back was gone. And that was a relief, because in the months leading up to the excursion I’d hit a down spiral so disorienting that I could barely discern up from down while inside of it: had I gotten better, or worse? The question itself was a wormhole, efficient enough in its pull to leave me feeling emotionally churned and altered as it sucked me in. Traversable worm holes are hypothetical, after all, and transmutative ones? Sci-fi entirely. Yet there I was, with questions swirling at me from all sides: am I a good person? Mother? Friend? Writer? Am I in any way…better? Read More