I’m in peace?
A year and a half ago my fiancé left me. *queue apocalypse*
So I thought. The universe said, “Unh unh, you gotta stick this out.”
I set out on the insurmountable task of finding out who I am. I found out jack shit. Do we ever really know?
I figured out a plethora of tiny things about myself. Pieces of a million piece puzzle, more pieces missing than not.
I can’t fight the feeling that the trigger of my self exploration holds more pieces of my puzzle than I do.
But it’s my puzzle. In this incomplete picture I see an incomplete woman. As I should be. I’m only 23. I’ve experienced enough heartbreak and obstacles to shape a lot of my soul but I know I’ve got a shitload more ahead of me. Experiences that’ll shave bits of me off and some that’ll add more dimension and textures.
Though my reflection is blurred, like pixelated censorship, I’m owning it. I used to wear a mask of sorts. Adapt to my environment. Be the wild party animal when I needed to be. Or the super brainy nerd. The saucy loud Latina. The list goes on. Fit in. Make friends. Be social! Now, I can walk in a bar baring the pixelated version of me. Be my quiet, awkward sarcastic self and not fall into the personalities of those around me. I let them see my blurred self and let them be as confused by me as I am. In no longer forcing myself in to a social persona I found my comfort in expressing myself with those who matter. Without all the noise of all my masks I exist in a comforting silence.
Silence in NYC.
I moved back to New York a year ago. The anonymity that the city provides set a stage for me to drop the masks. No need to adapt. The cluster of personalities and characters make it near impossible to fit in. No way I could possibly create a mask with all 30 different characters that are in this bar right now.
I thought, “Let’s just be me and see how that works out.”
It worked out just fine.
Though my environment is in a constant disarray. My inner self is silent. And when I need the outside to match the inside I curl up in a corner with a book (or rather my kindle)
Praise schmexy fucked up men in smutty romance novels. They got me through a lot.
And today, on just another average Monday, while I’m drowning myself in yet another schmexy book boyfriend and participating in book club discussion on Facebook, my silent existence of self acceptance is threatened. My ex fiancé has reactivated his old Facebook page, which seems to have been in a black hole where time is on a different wavelength and has reappeared like the last year and of half did not happen. I’m notified that he “likes” a picture I’m tagged in.
Now I’ve gotta find out which one.
Why did I do that.
It’s a picture of us in the ruins of Rome.
Damn it. I used to like that picture too.
Read next post Will I Ever Learn? to follow along. Thanks for reading.
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