this seabed floor

“I'll never know, and neither will you, of the life you don't choose. We'll only know that whatever that sister life was, it was important and beautiful and not ours. It was the ghost ship that didn't carry us. There's nothing to do but salute it from the shore.”
~Cheryl Strayed. Dear Sugar.

I asked him to let me walk myself and then to dive, into the depths.


He wanted to go along. To hold my hand and to be a comfort. A safe space. But this I knew I must do all on my own. I must leave this state of co-dependency. I must.

These depths, they will be midnight blue. There would be no glimmer from the sun above. It will be very much like night. The darkest night on this seabed floor. There will be no glittered covered shells. No golden pink pearls.

This. This, is the dirty work. The sludge and the muck that now lies across my own encrusted shag carpeted ocean underbelly.

You see I've lost my shimmer. I stopped writing somewhere along the way. Started shoving it all into the extra pounds around my belly. Burying it seemed like a good enough idea.

Until. Until. I noticed that I've lost my soft. I have lost my kindness. I've become ragged and bitter. My words cutting into the knoll-y grass covered hills that I love. My words snap across rooms an my heart thumps like a caged bird against my rib-cage.

I must tend to this. I must.

I searched tonight for "grief from the past" on my trusted friend Google.

I came up empty handed.

All paths led me to the loss of cherished people and loves lost. But what I know is that this is not about those things. This time.

This is about the loss of who I am no longer. The loss of who I might have been. The loss of dreams and visions. The loss of how it might have looked.

There seems to be no guide for that.

So I'm writing my own. It's time. And the only way that I know to do that is to leave the shore. To go alone.

I cannot focus on what might still be when I surface. That fear. Right there. It has caused me to hold back for far too long.

When I come forth none of it may still be there. Or all of it might look exactly the same.

The only thing that may change is me. I'm hoping to find a chemical peel for my bitter soul.

It's all mine


I'm done trying to release the past. I know it's not the "right thing" to say. Ask any guru or spirit guide. Or even Elsa. They'd all say, or sing "let it go, let it go."

{If you know me at all, you know I've never been the girl to do the "right thing."}

It's been too long of burning things over embers and attempting to set them free. It's become routine, and it's become too big of a deal.

The past, the hurts, the tears and the shame. It turns out they don't want their freedom. They are like homing pigeons. Roosted on my pillow. I find them there when I lay back down in the middle of the night after drinking too much camomile tea, in an attempt to drown them.

These fragments of bone and chiseled boulders are all mine. The release isn't working. It never really has been.

For years.

I started by trying to pray it all away. Laying it down. Setting them free. When that didn't work I filleted my chest to open up my heart and lungs.

I tried to write it away, to make affirmations out loud.

To buy it a passport and pack it's tapestry bags. Dropping it at the airport or even escorting it onto the plane. 

I've tried ignoring it.

I've tried to hide it all away. Shoving it all under the bed next to the party shoes and the birthday decorations.

These things all of them, left me raw, exposed, but no more free.

I tried to fool it into going. To bread crumb it out the door and away from my heart and belly. Don't be fooled. It would go. Sometimes ever so gently, in the quietest swiftest movement and sometimes loudly, boldly making declarations and throwing it's arms into the air like a child whose ice cream had all slithered to the ground.

It would all go and I would take a breath and maybe a hot shower and then raise my eyes to see it all standing before me again, my platinum hair still dripping. Our dance not over, this tango still with things unsaid.

I'm not forcing it to go anymore, I'm not asking it politely either. I'm not even suggesting it.

I'm taking back it's power to boomerang. Knocking me to the ground as it strikes me in the back of the head and the center of my heart.

My past and the pain that it brings. Is mine. I'm owning it. All of it. It's how I got here. It's what made me. All of it. And it's all mine. The dark parts, the cheating, the buried babies, the self harm, the pyramids of lies, the empty bank accounts, the 3 AM's, broken things, the birthday heartbreaks, the middle of the night texts, the carved on walls, the Grimm-est tales. They are mine. All mine. If they go at some point on their own free will, I will tell their stories still.

Pull up a chair. I'll light the fire.




{Don't get this wrong. I don't want to live there, in the shadowed hallways of my past. I just don't want to deny it it's place, any longer.}