I swam yesterday.

I tried to front flip into the pool, like when I was a kid, but the ass I have now at 24 made it much harder to complete the entire turn. So I flopped on my back and laughed my way under the water, not thinking about the stinging from the splash. Or about my bruised tailbone from last night’s “yoga” with Mandy (p.s., those mats aren’t that comfortable). I didn’t think about the ways my body wasn’t keeping up with my spirit. It didn’t matter if it hurt. I had no time to think about how much it hurt; between the beams of sun on my wet skin and the sound of her laughter when I shot out of the water with my long black hair covering my face as I pretend chased her around the neighborhood pool, there was no time to feel anything except exactly what I wanted to.

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That’s the draft I started last night, when I felt like an idiot for not updating to my blog. Even right now, I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to sit and write. I don’t want to talk about the shape the clouds too as I thought of Julius. I don’t want to have to explain who Julius is right now.

I guess, that’s the beauty of this whole blog thing. I started this off so I wouldn’t have to worry about what others are saying or thinking about me, so that I could feel free artistically, and right now I am realizing my biggest opposition is myself. Fuck what everyone else thinks.

So, fine. I don’t want to write about my day yesterday. Even if it was good.
Or about the 26hr hour greyhound trips I would take to visit him before he died. Or about the way my mom and I would slow dance in our living room, images of seven year old me laughing as I pretended to be the one to dip her back, or twirl her under my arms.
Once, Mandy said to me “Maybe you’re the only thing that helped her get by”. I remember feeling so angry. Why was that my job? I’m her daughter. I was 6. I was 12, I was 15. I didn’t ask for the responsibility. I’ve never been strong enough.

But I don’t want to write about that. Nobody wants to keep hearing the dark parts. Who is nobody?

I don’t want to write about that because yesterday my day was good, it was long and eventful and fun and full of love. And fuck, if I don’t want to write about that either. I don’t want to hear about that. I was there, and it was fine; but to me the day was good not because of everything we did, but because of how many times I felt myself silently drown in memories that can only live in my head and I still managed to smile and laugh and play and breathe. And breathe. And breathe.

A lot of recovery, from whatever you may be recovering from, is made up of flashbacks and smells and feelings you thought had long gone, and recognizing them as parts of a journey to getting better. It’s easy to fall short when the flashbacks become gentle reminders of who you once were, and you find yourself wishing for those moments back.

I don’t want to write about those things because I don’t want to want those moments back. I want to give them a space of their own, but only so I can fill up the rest of me with all the good that is coming.

T-minus 4 more days until Seattle!!