Breaking it in

I hate when people say things like “the new you!” like we ever really become something completely new. We are iterative beings. As an elk, you are born a fawn– wobbly, spotted, unsure, you survive a couple hunting seasons, and you gain confidence, drop your spots, learn to run.

You know what the beginning of change is? PAIN. I usually just stop there. This time, there’s no option to stop. There is only change. It hurts the most at night. There is something about the sound of my breath, the sound of the buzzing off the lightbulbs that makes me batty. Maybe it’s because an empty house is like a mirror: at the end of the day, you’ve got you. That’s it. It hurts a whole lot.

There was a break because I just listened to a song that drew me in more than I thought it would. This album, Cedar+Gold by Tristan Prettyman is probably the best break up album I have ever heard. It is hauntingly beautiful. Back to changes…

Because we are iterative humans, change hurts. The bigger the change, the deeper the cut. “Some days I’m still the same, and my love it still remains…” My therapist yesterday reiterated this question to me: If you remove all the people you have surrounded yourself with and were left with you, who would that be? What would that be? I know right now what I’m not, what I don’t like. But who am I? What do I like?

2 weeks ago, I learned to ride a bicycle. I’ve been taunted for years about this. So, in defiance, I rode that bicycle for 45 miles. I was wobbly, I couldn’t take my hands off the handlebars, and I had a really tough time looking around. But I did it. I kept going forward. I feel like a child sometimes, and in this part of my life it is no different. The world is new, I make mistakes, and I often feel like an absolute idiot. But I have been learning. I have been learning what my limits are and what I like.


I like competing. Today, I was in the semifinals for a work bocce tournament. My partner and I barely know each other, but I feel like, as two Southern California Mormons, we have more in common than we don’t. He made me laugh, and he is a fierce competitor whose spirit I feed off. I remember being able to compete all the time, and it took the edge off this anxiety. Now, I am on edge and I have no release. I don’t have sex, I don’t play sports, I don’t perform, and I am not me. I am not my core. I must have a release. I must let go. I am a good fucking bocce player. And when you leave it all out on the court, there is nothing wrong with losing. That’s how I felt surfing. Why is love a competition for me, then? Why am I a sore loser in love? Why do I never feel like I left it all on the court? Because I do. Because I am a good fucking lover, too. Like every other fucking thing. HELLO!!!

So–I am a good strategist. That’s one thing I am. And I have a problem with nice. You know what else? Letting go does a lot more good for me than holding on. Whew. Day one letting go. Day one of all the rest.

All for now,




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