I am not the same.
He warned us.
He told us that an experience like this, this stepping away, is not benign.
Not benign.
You can’t leave an experience like this unchanged.
He was right. I am not the same.
I came needing encouragement as a writer, a woman, a woman whose brain hasn’t always been reliable. I need confidence in my ability to tell a story.
But really, more than that, I needed space. I needed air. Time alone with my words. Room to hear what I was saying. No one was listening, not even me.
I need to keep listening.
I am not the same.
I’m still a writer. That I claim. And reclaim. That goes forward with me.
I. AM. A. WRITER.
But I am not the same.
I’ve reclaimed some of what I’d left behind. Shed some of what I no longer want. And am moving forward into the next evolution of my identity.
Not metamorphosis. There are parts of me that will always be.
But I am not the same.
I will not accept what I can’t. But, paradoxically, I can accept more. For the time being. Part of smashing the stagnation I’m stuck in is finding the heart, the stomach, to live with things I’d rather change. To more fully invest myself in things I’d rather be free of.
Not everything. But enough to make a better peace.
I am not the same.
I’m not going to be who I’m supposed to be, and I’m okay with that. At least for now. If you know me and are wondering how to read that, that’s all I’m going to say.
I am not the same.
I’ve never been all anyone thought I was, any way. I’m more; I’m less.
But that’s not exceptional. We can never know everything about anyone.
Even ourselves at times.
But I know I’m not the same.
Have I altered my baseline?
It’s hard to tell. Life is long even as days fly by.
But I am not the same.
I recently told a friend, I’ll stand or fall on my own choices.
Tripped up by the right ones that went wrong. Reclaiming myself in the wrong that feel right. Stumbling along under the weight of choices made by not making a choice.
I carry forward things I will have to lay down. Sooner or later. Maybe. I let go of things I may have been better off keeping. Some would say so.
But, as I said, it’s on my own choices I stand or fall. I didn’t ask your opinion. Give it if you must. I’ll hear it when I can.
What you think of me matters less.
I am not the same.
How am I different? I’m not wholly sure. But I know enough.
I am not the same.
In March, I wrote on the ocean. With other broken-whole women who refuse to be defined by the ugly parts of their stories, but by the strength they found through them. And in March I wrote on the ocean on my own.
I am not the same.
Well, friends, it’s my birthday. My forty-sixth. So today, as we all should from time to time, I celebrate… me. And I invite you to celebrate with me. Not in celebrating me, but in celebrating YOU. You’re here. Whatever it is, you’ve survived. And you’re more beautiful for the breaking.
If you’d like to see how I’ve changed over the last six birthdays, from suicide watch, to a few weeks after writing on the ocean, you can read about it here…
My 40th birthday was a birthday uncelebrated… Suicide Watch: The Story of My 40th Birthday
After Suicide Watch: Three Years and a Day
From Suicide Watch to Sushi: An All to Me in April 2017
Suicide Prevention Week: My Story
Fearfully and Wonderfully Broken
The Joy and Agony of Free Will
If you’ve thought about or tried suicide, I’m glad you’re still here. And I celebrate you. If you’re struggling, let me remind you that we still need you here. You’re beautifully unique, and have a purpose. And we can celebrate that, too.