i’ve never been considered particularly resilient or extraordinarily strong. i have always, to a large extent, worn my heart on my sleeve and been seen as a relatively open book. but ever since my mom died, people have told me how in awe they are of how graciously i have handled myself, how quickly i came back to work, how well i have kept myself together.
add to that the barrage of everything else-ness that has happened since, and the fact that i’ve continued to work and train and fight has been seen by a lot of people as admirable.
and then i came home. for the first time since he started seeing somebody – something that i’ve written about and said wholeheartedly that i’m happy about, for my dad’s sake – i’m actually seeing my dad with somebody else, rather than simply hearing about ti and conceptualizing it from 750 miles away.
it’s hard. way harder than i anticipated.
and i suppose that’s how i found myself doubled over in the shower yesterday morning, puking up the waffles my dad had just made us all for breakfast, marveling about how little my body protested even though it’s been over three years since i purged.
and maybe that’s why i’m relatively unconcerned. strangely unconcerned. because finally, after fighting it for six months, i have reached my breaking point. or rather, it has caught up with me. in a way, it’s a relief. i have been hurting for a long time; feeling like people see you as superwoman is at once flattering and terrifying. because you know there’s pain in there, but you’re suddenly afraid to let it out because you don’t want to disappoint everyone.
and after six months, what used to be a reasonable amount of pain is now a mammoth stockpile. it won’t boil over in a controlled amount. no – that shit is going to explode.
and explode it has.
i refuse to go from “that girl who lost her mom” to “that girl who relapsed because she couldn’t handle losing her mom.” but i’ll be damned, i’m not sure if i know how to do that.