Holy shit. Where did 23 go?
23 got swallowed by a breakup, a move, a pandemic. I feel like I was just regurgitated and landed on the eve of my 24th birthday. I'm broke and my degree is useless because corona killed theatre and I'm almost completely alone. Almost.
On the eve on my 22nd birthday, I sobbed as I opened a package from my mom at exactly midnight and the architect held me. I keep waiting for the tears to come but they haven't. Yet. 9:00 P.M. I think this is because there is nobody to hold me this time.
On my 23rd birthday I drank wine and passed a bong around with ten or so of my dearest friends, most of whom I haven't spoken to in a long time. The architect and I were still very much in love. I remember feeling like I finally found my community. Like maybe I could forget about the community I'd lost. I didn't know that in only a year I'd be living in my parent's basement, hiding half my story and pretending like I don't get high in the basement, that I'd have even less money, that I'd given up my magical life with the architect for all of this.
Tonight I'm left feeling very foolish.
I'm feeling foolish because I still think about the boy who ghosted me all those months ago, about how everyone who knows him tells me he's such a great guy. I'm feeling foolish because my culture infantilized my young adult experience and now my peers perceive me as somewhat aloof even though I catch everything.
I feel foolish because my last remaining friend from Mormon school turned out to be a monster just like the rest of them, and she stopped talking to me. I feel foolish because I've made a lot of bad purchases this year.
I'm actively mourning the loss of theatre that corona caused. I miss going to rehearsal, working with my accompanist, connecting with audiences. I don't think this is something I'll ever be able to give up. The last time I felt really, really alive was on the UM globe set, speaking Shakespeare.
The smoke has been bad this year. Not as bad as 2017. But enough to make me want to get out, to worry. My joints hurt because my boobs and butt have gotten so massive this year, and I don't know how to carry all these curves. Another way in which I've been disconnected from my Divine Feminine. But still, I miss being able to fit into the tiny dresses that the architect bought me. I honestly can't imagine trying to do this sober.
speaking of the architect he came into billings a few weeks ago and we saw each other for the first time in nine months which is the longest we've ever been apart and we didn't have sex even though it was looking like it might turn out that way but instead we had a very intimate conversation about that unspeakable thing that happened while we were together that we could never find words for and the most painful part was there's still a lot of love there but it didn't change a thing.
I have a plan for 24. It actually does involve running away. But all of my plans have fallen through for five years. Maybe there is no escaping this hurt.
photo cred: Terry Cyr Photography