I tripped and my voice found me

Well, hello again. In an attempt to decipher my current emotions, my mind traveled to the cadence that propels me to write. A craving to purge words. A drug-like state. Calm, seductive. This is the closest I have felt to myself in forever. I love this me, as emotion-fueled, deep and introspective as she may be.

I play with the idea to write here again, regularly.  This is my first time returning since I last wrote. I feel like I’m an adult revisiting her childhood home. The trees in my backyard show my roots long forgotten, the walls whisper my dreams, and I see “me.”

I revisit posts and dust off memories of a life that doesn’t seem like mine. It confounds and intrigues me.  How am I so far removed from these stories? I locked away my past-life and forgot to visit.

In ten minutes, I have found the answer to the sea of questions that have plagued me for weeks; a reminder of the consequences of age, experience and “perspective.”

x

Deciding to reclaim your life

As summer comes to an end and events such as Hurricane Irene and random earthquakes mark moments that will forever be distinguished memories, I am left feeling a little untethered. I start the dialogue that summer has escaped me, that I’ve done nothing, but then my memory reminds me . . .

I live a life so many covet. If twitter followers are a mark of anything, in one week, moments, trips, meals and 6am cocktails are spent with “people” who cumulatively have over one million followers, and that’s just four of them. I laugh. I dance. I am proud of my business. My body. Grateful for my friends. But I float . . and I feel as if days pass and mean nothing. Perhaps, it’s that being single, now for an extended period, having a small company, and living away from my family leaves the life I live to be simply lonely. . . . but connection cannot be dependent on finding the one.

So here I am. Making a decision to reengage. With myself. And change my decisions. To start- instead of watching tv (mindless and unrewarding with the exception of the escape provided) I am writing. Thinking. Deciding to figure out how to use every moment to be more alive . . .

 

 

 

The jungle that is the universe

Flying, again. These days a much less frequent occasion. Nonetheless, I return to a place long needed, but not long forgotten. My mind. It speaks . . . in a way it is incapable of doing so day to day. I am different here. I wonder if it is the expanse that lays below, the miles of land that are seemingly untouched, where a single being fails to make an impression, our creations, yes, but our physicality so insignificant.

A couple things happen. Two opposing emotions. One where my worries, my stresses melt into the selfishness from which they were bore, a realization that I am much too stuck in my own head. Ironically, the same head I don’t often visit. Quite, a preoccupying affair.

The other, a concoction. Emotions that should have been dealt and deserve to be felt. A hint of numbness mixed with a deep-seeded tenderness produces tears. Two drops. As in the horrible movie watched this weekend. The speed of which they took matched the speed I said was clearly fake. Either I am elementary in my emotional delivery or these tears were long waiting their speedy delivery, an escape from myself. Satiated with stresses. Time to let go.

And that’s where I reach a depth that requires words I don’t know. My mind dances around descriptions, defeating, failure, lucky, confused, undirected, and ultimately, what the fuck. Years ago I adopted an unfailing belief in the universe, the notion that things happen for a reason. That my life, the lessons learned were the greatest gifts. That hardships are signals to change. To adopt. Should you pay attention, wonderful warnings to follow, protection. Roads to the future destination much preferred. But here I am again. Transition, I feel. And all I can think about is exhaustion. That I am missing something for my heart seems at the end of its enduring.

The trip here was a recanting of many stories, while humorous and poignant and I, fortunate for them to be mine, to realize that I, such a simple individual, is really quite colored. I do love. But these stories tear. I feel for the girl who lived them. The feeling of stuck is definitely my biggest fear, capable of being my undoing and is my worst fear. I don’t want to have to untangle anymore. My strength is dwindling. And that’s why I write now. Because somehow, someway, here I am, again.

I felt that we sought the right things. Freedom. Passion. Ideas. And we are teased with that genuine success. From belief. From focus. But to me, who ponies up, takes the problems as mine to fix, I am zapped, I succeed but all while numbing. An unhealthy emotional dealing for I don’t take inside so well. More lessons, and my insides scream. I really am untethered.

And I want to say fuck. Question, why. I am not even sure if I believe anymore in a right path. I always thought the majority failed to consider, failed to listen to the lessons dealt. To grow, to change. That if we stayed persistence and real and had hearts that were kind, we would stumble upon our own unpaved path. Untamed, idiosyncratic, jungle adorned paths- both dangerous and beautiful, uniquely us. And most importantly, fulfilling.

So I am at more than a fork in the road. A fractured path.

N e x t  S t e p s

I believe we pay attention to that which we can control. So, my actions should I ignore, are to numb, to fix, to press on. Broken tires, A destroyed car. An experience, the result.

And if I attempt to listen. To believe in the universe would be to think the following. To believe in the need to stay persistent. That my dreams are being tested. Edison’s notion that so many great ideas die before properly explored.

Or conversely that I am meant to switch gears. The challenges that continue to confront are life’s directions. Reroute.

Or the option to change one’s mentality. A life that is much more simple. Smile. Dance. Laugh. And enjoy. Be simple. Discard this dialogue, this need to be someone, grow, challenged, the dialogue that is my worst enemy, I purport. This option the most unlike me. A character I don’t have. But I don’t believe in holding on to that of which doesn’t work.

The problem is how does one decipher?

Arrivederci. And a hello in 5.2 hours that I could long prolong.

My last words.

I miss writing. I miss this blog. And, you. I find myself somewhat breathless as I return to these old streams, layers of emotions and memories that are no longer the make up of my day.

This blog, unintentionally, documents the life I lived in Puerto Rico. When I first started writing, I longed for continuity in a life that straddled two places, two beings, and two parts that seemingly did not make one, specifically me, whole.  I wrote with the hope that writing and being connected to my introspection would transcend the life that no one but I knew. In that journey, I found you. I found a voice. I found inspiration. It ended with my leaving, and perfectly chronicles the two years that seem like such distant memories.

And as life often does, it has returned my thoughts to writing. Through a series of unlinked comments, praise for my distant writings, the noted talent I am unsure I have, a request for me to document my “unreal” life, and my own business where it seems necessary to be a “brand.”

So, I have spent the last week thinking. What do I write? Do I have anything worthwhile to say? It would be wonderful if I could write, be genuine and also have it benefit my company, my business, my brand. But, the truth is I am no expert. I am young and have an innate talent, business-sense. I am building a company. And it is tough, but it is my inspiration. I could chronicle my life, but it would be no promotion to do so honestly. And with whom could I share? My story is a girl who is atypical in love, a woman who breaks hearts, an entrepreneur who wants to grow an empire, a person who loves working out, challenge, thrill, and most of all, introspection, for it has been the best education. Dear reader, what do I do from here?

 

I was not built to break

My breath cannot breathe. Suffocated by the inertia that surrounds me, the lies I have learned. A fog envelops me this morning, the bed beckons me. But it offers no true refuge, an escape escapes me.

I reach, I reach deep into my heart. And I plead, I plead for my inner will. I search for the strength so seemingly eluding. The mountain’s face continues to loom. I am so tired of climbing. Disbelief at the challenges that face me.

I think of my life. The world that I dance on top of. The black ferrari in which I sat as we flew down the FDR. The check. The meetings. The movies. The sphere of the influential and the famous building in which I now sit. The surface so vastly different than the truth and the maze in which consumes my heart. To be on the brink of something so great. My energies question their ability to continue. But, I know. I know that this is not forever.

And I return to working on eliciting the change in which I desire. The cement to the world my toes are immersed in . . .

And I listen to Whitney Houston’s, “I Didn’t Know My Own Strength.”

And I pick myself back up.

Hold my head up high.

I was not built to break.

Who needs a boyfriend when you have a business partner . . .

He was my gay husband but really he is my business partner. I am not sure which one came first. But then he left me. He left for me New york and impassioned lust.

My gay husband no longer exists and those beach mornings, those dining room conversations, our intimacy, emotions and friendship seem long forgotten. And this was the hardest thing. An emotional abandonment. Threads of diatribes and outpourings of affection faded like faint swirls of smoke. The lasting memories so vague, only words . . . lost and meaningless without context.

And he never returns  . . . those words. The first night, Vieques, tears almost poured down our faces. The love. It seems ill-fated.

I do. Some days. With the misses. Or the come homes.

But he, says nothing. I can only wonder. And dream. That he cares so much he can’t say anything for fear that a hole of vulnerability and tenderness that can be cured would be created. But we move forward. With our passions and our working relationship. Like a marriage. Rules. Understandings. Aggression and frustration.

But I will never forget what started it all. The subways. The pennies. The dining room table.

Dad’s advice regarding relationships

As I walked to my car, I sat, forehead in my hands, the door ajar. The rearview mirror reflected a glimpse of hollow eyes. Dry. Eyes that longed to be wet. Once again, there were no tears to be found—it seems these days there never are.

As I drove over the bridge I asked for them, pleaded, floodgates open, please. Unanswered. Surrounded only by a desert of emotions.

My father called. The father who has only become a figment of that role in the past year. And I shared, divulged the subconscious torment that was beginning to unveil itself to my conscious. On the surface my emotions remain unscathed, but a teardrop that crawled down my face upon hearing my mother’s name two weeks ago proved that the truth lies elsewhere. My shoulders have also become the physical manifestation of my repressed emotions. The pain so intense I forked over $180 last Wednesday for the only massage I could find at 8pm. The gift of our bodies.

Psychological pain syndromes are actually defense mechanisms designed to cover up sensitive or unresolved emotional issues. The subconscious mind feels that these issues are so threatening to the well being of the individual, that it will do anything to prevent the issues from becoming conscious. This process is called repression. When repression is not enough to guarantee that the painful issues will remain hidden, the subconscious will create psychosomatic symptoms to preoccupy the conscious thoughts of the individual. This conscious focus on the pain is a very effective means of making sure that repressed emotional issues remain well hidden.

This in combination with the sabotaging of my relationship Monday night had me convinced I was a psychological, repressed mess. I must figure out how to fix myself, again. Thoughts of seeing a therapist danced in my mind. I thought of S, his stability and my contrasting instability. The cards dictate that I am destined to be single.

I initially attracted S because I was in a stable period, inspired by a new project of my own making and in love with my life’s ability to grant me to time to enjoy my passions. We matched . . . temporarily. Now, I am complex, messed up, and a saboteur.

But then came my father’s words. Advice, a first. He told me, “It doesn’t matter how messed up you think you are—what matters is that you share who you are with that person. The person then has the ability to meet your needs or not. The right person will want to learn how.” Such a simple truth, one I have known but knowledge and application are not the equivalent. My father’s multiple dictations of the above allowed it to permeate, a calm overcame me. I stopped worrying about whether I fucked up. I emailed S with an explanation. I shared how I work. The outcome was not in my hands or tied to my actions. Relief.

This morning I felt something I never had. As if my father gifted me another leg on which to stand. I noted my solitary life and my limited internal reach of my emotions. I realized how precious speaking is. How vital support can be. It’s not something built in my life and often when I seek, my calls are returned unanswered. But, for now, I am stronger, balanced, and once again, myself. And my shoulders feel a hell of a lot better.