It’s been a year since I came out. Which happened right here on this blog! But it’s been three months since I’ve written. And I finally know why.
*Cue the White Stripes’ “Fell in Love with a Girl.”
Since I haven’t posted since March 30, here’s a life update for ya:
In the past three months, I’ve finished my freshman year at NYU, hit the big 1-9, and started rehearsing my first play (it’s called “O Negative,” and it runs July 16, 20, & 22 at the Hudson Guild Theater in NYC. Click here to catch your boo onstage playing a version of herself).
I also lost my period again. According to “Flo,” my menstrual app, I’m 115 days late.
Now, while I was home in May, my psychiatrist suggested that I’m underweight.
That little bitch.
But not only was she wrong, she also sent me into a fit of crippling inadequacy. Once I emerged from the pit, however, I found the cause of my amenorrhea. It’s plain and simple: poor self-care.
I’ve shirked my yoga, my meditation, and my journaling.
I’ve stopped owning my truth.
And as a result, I’m harboring pain that my body just can’t handle.
The thing is (and I’ve mentioned this before), I feel needy, redundant, and self-indulgent when I write about “normal struggles.” To be honest, I miss my eating disorder, simply because it gave me content. But I’ve got to let that go.
I awoke this morning at 4 a.m. (not an uncommon occurrence for me), but contrary to my regular fits of insomnia, today I woke in searing pain.
My body is telling me something is wrong; it’s begging for me to be honest.
So here goes! Back to blogging.
This piece might suck, but I don’t care. It’s simply my return to the page.
I’m in love.
I’m in love with
A Certain Person
in my life
Who is quite important to me
Who has no idea
And who never will
Because I can’t tell her.
If I lose this person, I am certain I will die.
You know what? I can’t do this. Facing this is just too hard.
I won’t delete what I’ve already written. I’ll still publish it.
But that’s as far as I can go.
Ok, just a little further.
This is awful and unbearable and I wish I didn’t have to keep it a secret and I wish I could tell my friends, as in my other friends, who are not her, but I can’t, because what’s the point, because she’s never expressed interest in girls, and while I do get some gay vibes, and I believe we’re meant to be, and I imagine us getting married, why set myself up for disappointment by making that assumption? I don’t want to be hopeful but I also want to be hopeful and I think about her every second and I really would change my life for her and it’s getting worse and it’s getting worse and it’s getting worse, and people are noticing, people can tell, so how much longer until SHE can tell, and how much longer can I go on without telling her myself?
You know, it’s thanks to recovery that I’m forced to deal with this shit. What a beeeaaautiful thing! If I were active in my eating disorder, I could shrink the feelings by shrinking my self and avoid this experience entirely. But you know something? I’d be missing out on love. It’s on coincidence that I felt no love while I was active in my eating disorder. It’s no coincidence that at that time, I identified as “heterosexual.” So as painful as this is for me, at least I’m experiencing love.
One last truth kernel before I go: I am deeply ashamed of my feelings. And terrified to make them known. But I’ve betrayed my value of honesty by staying silent for so long. So while I’m terrified that she might read this post, and that others might figure out who she is, I have to do this for my own healing. I have to do this for my health. Whatever happens now is out of my control. And to that, I surrender.