Happy Monday loves. My mind hasn’t been able to stop racing for the past week. I’m just now realizing how overwhelming Decembers usually are for me. It’s my birthday month so there’s the pressure of celebrating myself, which I’ve always had complex emotions around. On top of that, it’s also my best friend’s birthday, two days after mine, my mother’s, the next day after that, and all the holiday celebrations that I don’t know whether or not I really care to be a part of right after.
Again, I almost thought of skipping this week’s newsletter because it felt like I couldn’t structure my thoughts in a way that felt good enough to publish with so much going on, but I reminded myself that we’re not here for perfection and that my incomplete thoughts could potentially be golden nuggets to someone. So here we go.
updates on my living situation & guilty waters
I haven’t been living at my parent’s house for the past few weeks. It became too much. My OCD began flaring up seemingly every 30 minutes, and so I did something incredibly hard for me by asking for support from a friend—I’m staying with them in the meantime, and I am beyond grateful.
I made it almost 11 months living with my parents. My longest streak yet since officially moving out for the very first time in my early 20s.
On this journey of healing and reclaiming my creativity, my guilt has oscillated plenty. Constantly feeling entangled by the pressures of what it means to play the role of a “good” daughter, “good” friend, “good” artist.
Some recurring questions I’ve asked myself in the past few months are:
Do I attend the family holiday parties even if the energy of them feel soul sucking?
Do I say “yes” to showing up to functions I’m invited to by friends to maintain some sort of connection to a community even though at times it feels as though it disrupts my creative flow?
Do I continue to live at home because it makes my parents happy, and they’re only getting older, and life is short, even if I can hardly manage to stomach watching how much they’ve normalized their toxic dynamic and poor health choices?
When I reflect on my past year and how much time and effort I put into rebuilding a relationship with my parents, it’s so jarring to me how often I feel like it wasn’t enough. Even when I’m away from their home, it still feels like I’m indebted to them.
another dark night of the soul?
I had a terrible nightmare last week. I woke up sweating and sobbing profusely. Right before I went to sleep that night, I led myself through a mini grieving process. I prayed, “Show me what I need to see,” felt the heaviness of my body, released some tears, and thought to myself “good work.” Little did I know that my subconscious would continue that work in my sleep, and I was not prepared for that.
I thought I had released so much of my painful, repressed childhood memories before moving back home. I think maybe a part of me was afraid of discovering that there was still more work to be done and that was why I was so reluctant to make the return. Sure enough, what returning home has revealed to me is that my healing journey is only now truly beginning. The past few years were just the preface.
a journal entry: existential dread
Maybe I had to leave home because it was all just too overwhelming for me to carry the burden of what felt like my deepest existential crisis taking place. To develop such a deep love for my parents over the past year, while also experiencing what it was like to be around them as they are nearing old age. To have them consistently mirror to me our mortality. It has been reminiscent of Randall reconnecting to his dying father, William, in This Is Us.
It was a struggle to witness my dad go through the motions of treatment for his prostate cancer, continue to drink his problems away and justify his choices, because in his opinion, at least wine was better than hard liquor. It broke my heart to watch my mom continue to do everything for him, while receiving little to no appreciation in return. Her resentment growing. My own surpassing hers.
After reading this entry, I searched for guidance, and the words of the beautiful Leny Strobel brought me back to a hopeful state:
“The question of the body began to emerge for me. And in particular, looking at my father’s body. His Methodist body. His Protestant body that was so rigidly disciplined and disconnected from his emotions. And so I began to look at how he grew up. The emotional distancing that happens when you’re split. And so as I was trying to redeem my father, from patriarchy, from the disembodiment, I would look back and see glimpses of his wholeness.”
I revisited an old post I shared on IG. The front page was titled “A few words I used to describe my dad.” The carousel consisted of Strobel’s words interlaced with my story. I grew nostalgic of those moments over the past of year of living at home when I could see my father’s wholeness so clearly. I rewatched archived videos of him singing, dancing, and acting silly in my photo album. I desperately needed to be reminded of these sentiments when I located emotions of rage I still had from a past, maybe still present, version of him.
And so the work continues.
my deepest craving
A few weeks ago, an old friend asked me, “What do you crave more of?” I answered, “Solitude.” She smiled and said, “Remember when you used to hate being alone?” And I thought back to those days of how much anxiety I felt every time anyone ever left my presence. Now, I love being alone. I crave being alone for long periods of time. Being alone—even if at times I may yearn for community—is a powerful place for me to be. Being alone is when I feel most connected to myself. Being alone is the bridge that leads me to the place where I can feel most connected to you.
Sending you all my love,
Val
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