5.6
July 17, 2020

You Don’t have to be Strong Every Day.

 

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Somedays, you just need to sit in bed and cry in that ugly oversized T-shirt.

You know which one I’m talking about; the old, ill-fitting, “am I depressed, or is it hormones?” shirt.

It’s okay.

You don’t have to fart rainbows every day. You don’t have to be strong every day.

Sometimes you need to cry, bleed on your underwear, pop zits, eat bad food, and feel it. All of it.

Sometimes you need to watch a stupid rom-com or YouTube videos of 13-year-olds who have voices that let you feel like you have a reason to cry; and maybe it’s tears for angelic voices, but maybe it’s tears for yourself.

You don’t have to justify it or put it into a category. Just do whatever the f*ck you need to do—be authentically broken. Let yourself have that.

It’s okay.

Maybe you’ll take a long, hot shower. Maybe you need to scream-sing in the shower—let yourself release. Maybe you’ll cry at the same time so the emotions can wash over you.

It’s okay.

We all value strength, or our idea of what it looks like, but f*ck…sometimes it is so hard to give ourselves permission to break—even just a little bit.

I have to literally type it out, see it in black and white, to remind myself that it’s okay not to always feel 100 percent; to suffer in the wreckage of my mind.

Because otherwise, it just eats away at the edges; otherwise, you start making a mask, and then others think they have to wear a mask, and we just perpetuate this false ideal.

It’s okay.

In fact, it’s a lot easier to deny our hurts and our pains and our fears. The true, gritty, bravery lies in the “feeling.” From not hiding our brokenness.

I’d rather be broken and bloody because the marks left behind will sing of my rebellion. The dirt under my nails will whisper the tale of how I clawed out of my own grave. From time to time, and time again, I might crack; I might waiver, but in my earnest refusal, I will rise.

So, my dearest ones, my fellow stumblers (that’s what we are), let us feast together on things of substance, let us rejoice in the trials, lick our wounds, and set fire to our bones; we can sing without key and chords; we can tend to the truths and mistakes and cry and be broken. We can acknowledge regret and then lay it to rest. We can move forward.

Let’s sit, side by side, and let ourselves unravel. Because then we can stitch ourselves back together again.

 

 

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