I meant to write this on the first, to be a cliche and corny and uncool as I am. I closed my thoughts on 2016 on Christmas. With 2017, it commences with intention. I want my hopes for 2017 to exist in black and white– out there in the universe, breathing themselves into reality. Just as last week, I’m scared. I feel more exposed now. In the past year, I reopened this blog in the rawest fashion– confessing my suicidal thoughts. My words traversed depression, a lack of community, mustering the courage to leave, to start over, belonging, boundaries, love and what if I don’t get it, all the things I want but go mute between my head and my vocal cords. Vulnerability is profoundly uncomfortable, but I’m glad I’m exploring it here. Thank you. Thank you for reading, for listening. I don’t personally know anyone who follows this blog, and that makes it all the more humbling to feel a sense of support just everywhere.
It’s 3 am. These words won’t look away . They inundate my thoughts like a monsoon that downs all other sounds. Be your own wreckage for once, Marisa. Don’t stand neatly in this box, praying nothing will wreck you so you can remain innocent and clean. That’s not you. Be the messy, brave glory you were born to be.
Please be good to me. Love me hard and send me abundant, indulgent, unconditional, incandescent love. Send it to me in people and places. Send me to them. Mail me with intention so I am delivered (and accept) to those who honor me as I honor them, rather than settling to avoid ever feeling lonely. This is terrifying and overwhelming and jolts me in an emotional tailspin about my ability to deserve love. That’s ok. Send it anyway.
I understand the trade off for this (not that love is a transaction force– it’s not) is my surrender of perfectionism. Now, I unsubscribe from the collector’s ideology: I will travel/ date/ find love/ tell people about this blog/ try that workout class/ talk to those people/ demand better treatment from others. Perfect doesn’t exist. It’s the opt-out clause for acting now. But, knowing how little treating myself like memorabilia has gotten me, it’s necessary to try something else. Here it goes– here I am trying to peel back the layers of shame, shoulds, and coulds and woulds. Let it be uncomfortable, raw, exposing, vulnerable, let sensations return, and with that alone, it will be worth it.
Let this be a year alive. I want to experience this year– travel, taste, sweat, curse, dance, cry, laugh, connect, scream, come and go, marvel, empower, be empowered, love, revel, and celebrate. It won’t be perfect. Don’t worry, 2017, you don’t have to be. Let me be alive this year. Staring less into the black mirror of a cell phone or TV and more into the eyes of the people around me. I want to numb less, petrifying as it is to expose my nerves to this gritty world.
I will challenge myself this year. I will stretch and grow and grow up a little (but not too much). Inevitably, I’m going to fall short and fall on my face. This won’t be easy since I’ve acquired a taste for control. Life is most delicious when you allow it the space to unfold for itself. So, I’ll center back on my values and allow things to unfold, knowing I did the best I could with that. It’s not about doing to most or overcompensating. I just need to tune into the woman I am at my core. She’s in there.
My boundaries, the ones that I firmly believe in, will be respected by others and myself.
Screw pretty. Screw the way it looks. What does it feel like? Let this be a year that glows from the inside out.
May I find community, belonging, and the courage to connect without the insurance of longevity.
2017, I’m scared I won’t get the things I want. I’m scared I don’t deserve the things I won’t. I’m going to it anyway. Shaking, sweat palms, I’m going for it– all of it. I am ready for you. May you be all the things a good year is, and I will be my best self (this far).