I took a plunge after last week’s post. Feeling myself coming undone, I knew the unraveling was something I needed to do in private, so I took myself offline. I didn’t drink or smoke myself away. I didn’t lose myself in another. I didn’t lose myself at all. I clung to my sadness, I wore it instead of allowing it to wear me. There’s a tiredness that lingers still, a fog that clouds my days.

I’m back online now and am unsure if that decision was premature. I saw some friends Saturday night, and then my family on Sunday afternoon. It felt good to surround myself with those that love me. To be reminded I’m not an island, but rather a grain of sand on a massive beach is comforting. I am not alone, just lonely.

There’s a part of me that feels selfish saying I want more. I have so much, why isn’t that enough? I’m trying to give to myself what I long for in another, but my arms can’t wrap themselves around my waist quite like she can. I can’t get lost in my own voice. I should write more because it helps with that a little. My mind can take so long to settle down though.

Though I wrote not one poem in the days I took for myself, I was able to pull words from my overflowing soul last night. Having only had a glass of white wine for dinner, I could feel the electricity beneath my skin, sending shocks through my nervous system. The wine didn’t do this, of course, but it helped me navigate that wave of panic. It slowed me down and helped me cry as I wrote about my sadness being a sickness. If I think about it too much, the feeling comes back - the churning of my stomach and the aching of my bones.

It’s my hope to not be as online this week again. I won’t delete the apps, because a lot of things happen that I feel poorly having others relay to me. I don’t want to burden anyone with trying to keep me in the loop, though no one has ever made me feel like one. I read an entire book last week and that helped keep me distracted in a way that’s familiar and healthy to me.

When I downloaded Instagram again, I made a post about reading during recess in the fifth grade. It was the first year in many that I didn’t transfer schools. I’d transferred from First Baptist Church of Hammond’s private school in the fourth grade to Hammond’s public school system towards the beginning of the second semester. It was a really rough transition. I had a fourth-grade teacher who completely didn’t grasp the concepts of a traumatized child. I often chewed on the side of my mouth as a way to self-soothe and she always reprimanded me, thinking I was chewing on gum. Being the non-confrontational person I am, I didn’t want to continue to tell her I wasn’t chewing on gum after the first few times. I just pretended to get up and spit out the gum that wasn’t there, trying to use the shame and embarrassment I felt as a reminder to drop the habit my mom says I got from my dad, who did the same thing. I should ask him if that’s true.

Anyway, coming into the fifth grade feeling a little more grounded and having a new teacher who was the complete opposite of the bully I had the year before turned my educational experience around. Miss Benninghoff was the sweetest teacher I’d encountered and showed me softness and kindness in an adult I hadn’t experienced in such a long time. I’d never gone to therapy after having undergone the abuse my babysitter subjected me to. Therapy wasn’t in my vocabulary. I hardly spoke about anything at all. My mom once praised me for my observance after coming back and taking moving us out of Gayle’s house. She said she loved that about me, that I was always in my own world, but peering into everyone else’s. I think that’s what drew me to read so much as a kid. I didn’t have the words to express what I felt then. I needed to read stories of those who’ve felt the same or lived lives of hardship and could articulate that. It also provided such an escape from the chaos that still went on around me.

I want to continue to use that tool, reading, as an anchor for myself. I checked out three books at the library Saturday. I hope to read one each week for the next few. It just might keep me grounded within myself enough to write more. One can only hope.

Until next time.