+Healing has no all-inclusive definition

I haven’t blogged in over a month. And I think I figured out why.

I’ve been lacking inspiration. But not because inspiration isn’t there. Ideas, thoughts and situations have presented themselves as inspiration for me. But I haven’t taken the inspiration to heart. Outside of my career, I’ve failed to turn any inspiration into action lately. When it comes down to it, being inspired also requires some sense of motivation. Motivation that for some reason I haven’t had for awhile.

If you’ve kept up with my blog you probably know, I’ve been blogging a lot about learning to love myself again. I blog about how far I’ve come, and things I’ve learned along the way. As a blogger I get to frame my life exactly as I want for you to see. And most of the time I write only when I have conquered something daunting or have an opinion I truly believe in. Tonight is different. Tonight I’m writing about my healing process. And it’s not framed by some success story or some milestone I’ve hit. I probably won’t leave you with any wise words or life epiphanies.

Healing is exceptionally frustrating. You think you’re over your trauma and then without cause and without warning it’s almost like you’re back to square one.  And if you’re not careful, going back to square one can absolutely destroy you.

You know all those self-help books and healing guides? And how they tell you healing is a cycle? And how there’s these stages of healing that you go through whether it’s denial, sadness, anger, relapse, desperation, or hope among others?  Well I’ve read my fair share of self-help guides and I sure as hell do not follow a clear cycle. My healing is all over the place. It’s chaotic and unfathomable.

So here it is, completely unfiltered…I present to you a poem about healing, a poem that doesn’t rhyme, unless by accident, or follow any guidelines poetry should. A poem that has exceptionally horrible punctuation and pretty terrible analogies. It might not even be a poem, actually. Call it whatever you want, I’ll call it Healing When You’re Mo.

First there’s the brick hitting your face.

Exactly like when Kevin hits Marv with one in Home Alone

Funny kid. Funny movie.

You wonder what the hell happened

And you count your fingers to make sure you know what’s happening, and that you don’t have some sort of concussion.

Then it sets in a little bit

And you have this monstrous bruise right across your forehead.

A bruise that everyone around you can see.

And they keep asking if you’re okay.

And you keep telling them you’ve never been better.

But you go home and you ice it.

And you cry. Not a little. A lot actually. Cause it hurts.

And you keep replaying the moment the brick hit your head.

And you keep thinking about how you could have avoided it.

You keep thinking about how you could have taken a step back.

You could have been better.

You continue to sulk on your own.

You literally cry until you’re sick.

You stay up until 3AM, 4AM, 5AM. Either for fear of a concussion or fear of being alone for the first time in years.

A month passes.

You’ve been treating your wound with an ample amount of alcohol. Outwardly, it’s pretty much healed.

But, the alcohol phase is most embarrassing.

You send regrettable texts and find other single people who just want to help distract you.

Which yes, distracts you for about five minutes ’til it’s over.

Then you’re just back to the undeniable understanding of your singlehood.

Through texting you begin bargaining with him like you’re on Pawn Stars.

All you want is a little something for your investment

But all you get is a “Sorry mam, the best I can do is: I’m sorry you feel that way.”

A couple more weeks pass

You give the guy some space that he probably deserves after you’ve completely suffocated him.

You start living life like it actually means something without him.

But then all of a sudden when you’re coming out on top, feeling free and happy, he weasels his way right back into your life.

By telling you how hard it has been on his end.

And because, realistically the wound is still pretty new (and because you’re an oblivious idiot), you flock right back to what you used to know.

And for a minute, it’s perfect. Nothing else exists.

You have retreated back to what hurt you the most. Congratulations.

And little do you know the pain is even worse the second time around.

And so after many drinks and a few good nights you say your goodbyes.

Ignorance is bliss, my friend.

You pretend like after a set of nights in oblivion you got the closure you needed.

A week and a half passes by and you’ve found yourself back at home, where you could be coddled.

He checks on you to pretend he cares. So he can make up for using you before you left.

You silently get back at him by finding other ones to distract you.

Meanwhile he’s opening his heart up elsewhere.

You haven’t opened your heart though. In fact, you’re convinced you probably never will again.

Two months pass

You cry the entire time.

The months are incredibly dark. Because you’re slowly losing everything you built up until the moment the brick hit you.

Silence ensues on his end.

You finally make a decision for you.

You’re not going to let go of the rest of your life just because one part was ruined.

You feel better.

Until you realize he has fully opened his heart to someone else.

You realize you don’t get to love him at all.

Not even as a friend.

You don’t get to be part of his life anymore.

And you cry some more. The hardest so far actually.

You replay the words he promised you over and over and over wondering where the hell you went wrong.

Thinking about how he’s going to promise her the same things.

You wonder what she offers that you couldn’t.

You wish you could offer whatever she could.

Still, you stick with your decision, because every decision up until now has been wishy-washy.

You go back to the place it hurts to be, to challenge yourself.

The first week back is horrible.

It’s been almost 4 months and it’s almost as if you’re beginning to heal all over again.

You put on a brave face.

Two more weeks pass and suddenly the new sense of meaning and hope that your decision brought with it has ignited a flame under your feet.

And you join everything at once.

Because you know that once you get to a certain destination you’ll be happy.

You join a church because it will make you happy.

You start blogging again because it will make you happy.

You say “yes” to any and every social outing because it will make you happy.

You workout more because it will make you happy.

You read a book because it will make you happy.

You give up alcohol because it will make you happy.

You even go on a few dates with guys you met online because it will make you happy.

But you fail to understand that happiness is not something you capture once you’ve arrived at a certain destination.

A month passes and to your surprise you’re not happy.

But you joined a gym!!!!

But you went on dates!!!

But you read a book, almost in its entirety!!!!!

You can read all the self-help tips and healing books you want, but no one can define your own healing process.

No one can prepare you for the shit storm ahead.

You don’t know what kind of healing you’re going to get until you experience it.

And holy hell do you experience it.

You find yourself reflecting on life like you’re Aristotle.

Writing poems like you’re Robert Frost.

Singing in the shower like you’re Adele.

And daydreaming about romances like Noah and Allie’s.

You keep thinking you’re okay.

You keep thinking of how far you’ve come.

The close friends you have like to remind you of it.

They tell you single looks good on you.

And you’ve actually really started enjoying yourself.

But every now and then

Everything comes

right back to

the surface

Because you won’t take the damn life jacket off.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I'm Morgan. I like Mo, but you can call me either.

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