The Great In-Between.

My therapist once told me that I speak very abstractly. I tip-toed toward my defense. The goal was to speak abruptly, blatantly, to say what I really meant. What I want to say is this is the year I've lived in the part of purgatory where daisies are blooming. What I really mean is I've had more difficult growth than I've had otherwise. I've had more chances for eremitic redemption than anyone else would have allowed. I have given myself grace, gratitude, patience, and space of the utmost respect. In a journal entry I re-read from the final day of 2021, I assessed my well wishes and my hope for the new year. “I am so thankful for the lessons I have learned this year, as I’m sure they will provide me the insight I need to thrive going forward. I am hopeful for 2022. I hope I can find the pieces of me I feel are lost in translation. I hope I can take the next big step in my life; I am hopeful for a lot of things.” What I came to realize is that those determinations weren't made from hope, but desperation. I use(d) the facade of hope as an empty promise to myself that excuses are profitable and that the world can turn itself around. When it came time for me to do the work you can imagine my shock that there was, in fact, work to be done. In comparison, the changes I made in 2021 were simply just steppingstones for the amount of development I’d accomplish in the following year. Of course, I’d have no way of knowing that, but as the year progressed and the work got harder and harder there was a piece of me that wished I would have been able to prepare myself at the very least. I have a memory of my 10th grade English class in which we read Lord of the Flies and all of our classwork prompts reflected instances in the book. A question regarded who we thought, in the class, would be most fit for the position of the protagonist, of leading the group if we were caught in that situation. We were set up to share in the order in which we were seated and to my right sat someone I really only said hello to in the hallway when we caught eyes. She looked at the teacher, looked at me, then looked at the paper she was writing on and said “I think Cheyenne would be a great leader; she just seems like she does well under pressure and would be able to keep everyone in line.” I think about this often. In the strife of a typical day, when I feel I’m falling short, and I do feel like I’m falling short, something suggests itself as a grave reminder to this classroom reflection. It isn’t reassuring, but rather a position I’m in that I retroactively prove to myself what I’m capable of. Every opportunity of growth thus far likens itself to this pattern. And on the other side: presents a welcoming to this warm and newfound knowledge. A pat on the back, a Good Samaritan form. A realization that what I’m encouraging myself to do, even in those moments I am falling short, is a setup for success. Even in the moments I’ve said “this shit is so hard,” I recognize that the “work” is not for nothing. I’m sifting through the things that used to keep me up at night and would prevent me from walking into a crowd of people and would introduce hyper fixation into something pure because I needed something to make me feel not like myself for a minute. And I’m coming out a better person for it. And while the work is hard, there are seldom other valuable lessons you’d learn outside of putting yourself through the wringer on your own accord. Earlier in the year, I couldn’t shake the idea that someone else made me this way, whatever way that was. It bothered me. And as I sit here listening to what sounds like a seagull screaming into the still air of the first warm day in a week and a half, I can recognize that other people were certainly the catalyst for the struggle, the despair, and the dismay I experienced, but in no way do they deserve a thank you for who I’ve become and what I’ve changed because of it. I recognize when to give credit where credit is due. Nobody deserves credit for making you feel small enough that you decide you have to build yourself a platform. I came to meet the midway of two versions of myself I’m not familiar with. It was in this great in-between that I began to experience the growing pains of being a 27-year-old woman working through her trauma, unlearning learned behaviors, rewiring her brain to sound like herself, and still trying to pass as a functioning and civilized adult. The mortality and humanity of others became very apparent to me. My testaments to putting yourself first fell on the same deaf ears that applauded me for “doing this early.” For not waiting until later in life to “realize” there were things I needed to unpack. Or more coincidentally, working in a mental health facility and belittling someone 20 years younger than you because you felt triggered by their better intention. You can’t change other people. You can’t beg them to treat you better or to love you or to give you space or grace when they simply refuse to. You can’t make them apologize. You can’t risk yourself to get a reaction and come out unscathed. We’re all in this for ourselves, while simultaneously trying to create meaningful and personal relationships in a para-social relationship-bred culture. You build the life you want to lead and those interested will follow. This was hard for me to accept. What was harder for me to accept was knowing the relationship with yourself has the same stipulations. Build the life you want to lead and the parts of you that resonate will stay. Or will fight to be associated. Or will evolve into characteristics unimaginable. That might also be a result of the medication. The new year hasn’t become a scapegoat. 2023 isn’t pending as a desperate attempt to relinquish the things that don’t bring me peace. 2023 is going to be a year of further growth. It’s going to be a year of going with the swell and keeping pieces of myself for me. I’ve gone far too long experiencing the loss of self-effacing traits to the people who then shunned me for thinking that’s what made me unique. There’s very little I’m leaving in 2022 because I learned so much I know I will carry with me for the rest of my life. And there aren’t many things as daunting.