I’m Not Happy; I’m Healing

I’m exhausted, and yet here I am, at my computer unable to quiet the reoccurring anxiety that sets in every night before I sleep. My babies are in my bed, leaving a sliver of space for me that I will have to fight to keep during the night. They wrap arms around me, leave satin bonnets under my neck and lay heavy heads on my chest. They are growing and changing and I’m grasping for more opportunities to be ‘mama’ to my babies. My son, at nine, is becoming a young man whose feet are bigger than mine. He asks me for advice on how to be a gentleman to pretty little girls. He’s becoming a young man who looks at me to figure me out, instead of looking at me to tell him who he is. He knows he is brilliant. And my daughter, who I taught to read two years ago is now six. She’s reading chapter books independently, and my text messages sneakily, and tells me that she’s going to marry Kendrick Lamar because he is so handsome. She’s got good taste. And yet, with all of this goodness. These babies who have been the most important beings in my world, with these incredible humans by my side….I am not happy. And that is ok. I’m healing. 

I’m looking at a note that was sent with a gift from one of my dearest friends from childhood.

“On your birthday, I celebrate you and the special place you have in my heart.” And I tear up every time that I read it. This friend has been a part of my life since I was fifteen years old. He  talked me through nights of devastation regarding my divorce. He was my first crush. The first guy that I looked at with awe. The first male that inspired me. I remember watching him from the balcony of the grand Olympia theatre in Miami,  during a dress rehearsal. A trumpeter with bravado and swagger and passion. And something began to swell inside of me, and I knew, whatever he felt on that stage…I wanted to feel that as well. I wanted whatever he was made of. I have a complex relationship with men, as most women do. I have experienced the majority of my trauma from my relationships with men. I have also received the majority of my healing from my interactions with them.

Healing is an interesting thing. We are now so informed, that we flippantly remind ourselves that it is not linear, but I fail in acknowledging to myself that it is also not logical. Healing follows no rules and gives zero fucks about time. It is outside of our limited scopes and truly runs its course, zig zagging throughout the emotional and spiritual elements of our compositions. 

The first time that I was intimate after divorce, I slept through the night soundly for the first time in over a decade. My partner knew bits about my past; that I was abused as a child. That my ex-husband had been my first and only sexual partner. That I experienced sexual assaults as an adult. Although my new partner was strong and sturdy, he was tender and attentive and I felt seen and safe; a feeling that was never consistent for me.

And so, here I was, waking up the next morning, in his oversized shirt, poking myself in my right dimple, because it is so pronounced from my smiling. I’m telling myself to get the goofy grin off of my face but I can’t. And it’s in that very moment that I finally, truly know, that all of the difficult decisions that had led me to that point, were all worth it. I cover my face with my hands to try to convince the tears not to come, but they do. And for the first time in a long time I feel…like I have permission to be me. 

I turn over, and of course, my partner has been watching this whole inner moment silently. We lace fingers and he asks if I’m ok, and I convey to him that I am fucking amazing. 

And I am. Fucking amazing in my existence. I am healing. I’m grateful. I am present and doing the hard work of standing up every day. I am doing the hard work of resting; unlearning conditioning of always being a support and instead, centering my own needs, comfort, and pleasure. I’m doing the unthinkable and retraining my subconscious to believe that I matter and that I am worthy of good things. I am challenging voices and scars of neglect with truth. I am content. It’s kind of the feeling performing. Before I go onstage, I ground myself. I dismiss the feelings that I have…excitement, hunger, sadness, giddiness. Whatever those feelings are, I let them know that I will give them space when I leave the stage, but for now, I’m lending my body to this experience. Right now, I’m content with not feeling happy. I’m lending my body, my spirit, to the experience of healing.  I’m often overwhelmed, but grateful. Scared shitless, but, grateful. Lonely, but, grateful.  I am learning basic skills to thrive that I never had the opportunity to learn or practice before.  I’m learning that when I choose myself, I will always win. 

Isn’t it amazing? I’m no longer dating my ex-partner, but I’m so grateful for him. My relationship with him was a gift to release my doubt, my self blame, my feelings of guilt for choosing myself. I experienced traumas being healed instead of compounded. I found hope in the reflection of myself that I saw in his eyes. 

 And  seeing myself in that way…the way that he saw me. Perhaps that’s what I saw on that stage all those years ago. Something that I wanted and that I look for in the men that I find myself so drawn to. Perhaps, they are reflecting the potential of who I could be, or the reflection of who I really am, and so,  naturally I am drawn to them. Drawn to myself…which is most surely, the only companion I truly can’t live without, and the only way to get, to happy.

I hope that I get there. I believe that I am worthy of happiness. I look forward to this journey that I’ll take with all of it’s turns.  I yearn for big, bountiful happiness. Happiness that is self generated and long lasting, bursting with expectancy for its continuation. But for now, I’m just healing, and that’s alright with me.

If you are on your healing journey, I salute you. You are worth the work, and the effort. If things feel difficult, know that that feeling isn’t abnormal. Nothing is wrong with you. You are doing the the hard work of saving a life. You’re a fucking superhero.