Some things I used to love:
Tanned and earring-ed just a few days after meeting him
Writing in the first-person
Surrendering to extreme emotions and getting high on them
Exploring all the ways in which I self-sabotaged
Ruminating on my flaws
Piecing together the qualities of a person I was attracted to in order to understand the attraction
Being alone while daydreaming about moments I felt really close to a man I couldn’t have
Examining the two fierce and opposing states of Abandon and Discipline that fought a battle in my psyche (this examination happened mostly in my 20s) (abandon nearly always won)
Feeling envious of women who’d “figured love out” or seemed to represent “worthiness” and were (in my view: deeply) loved by a man
Taking stylistic risks with punctuation
Fantasizing about finally being a published author with readers who “got” me and my work, and all that that acceptance and adoration would offer
Writing through and out of pain and confusion
Threading words and sentences together that were ‘of’ me but seemed to come ‘through’ me
About two years ago, these things I loved began to unravel. Other people’s essays written in the first-person grossed me out and ruminating about my flaws didn’t offer the same level of edification. Whole days passed without spinning out on anxious thoughts. Exposing my needs and fears didn’t feel urgent or necessary to survival. There were longer pauses, really deep breaths, between anxious thoughts about the past and fears about the future. I had more faith in myself and was more honest. I trusted the blank space ahead. Being isolated felt less like protection from danger and more like a false sense of safety. I went out and spent time getting a tan and riding my bike.
Tearing down the walls of isolation was both dramatic and subtle. Quitting my job and moving back West were huge moves, but softening hard or mean thoughts was more subtle. All of it felt right. Then only a few weeks from a huge moving truck arriving at my doorstep to take my things to Calgary, I met him.