"Bitch it's called SELF. ESTEEM."
Last night I was thinking about how I needed the question marks to end. I crave stability like I crave oxygen. Information is a drug. flipping the switch on neurotransmitters, sending a rush of calm and peace.
So instead of waiting until two weeks went by, my arbitrary allotted amount of acceptable angst, I sent a text:
Hey you. I know you are probably still dealing
with stuff, or at least I'm guessing you are. If
there's any way you could shoot me a text and let
me know if you are still interested (or even like, if
you're doing ok), it'd put my mind at ease a bit.
You've been so quiet, I'm not really sure what's up.
And with that, I communicated my feelings without behaving needy or accusatory. With that I gave up the reigns on my own terms, leaving the door open, but as a participant instead of a helpless witness.
My mind is open this morning. There was no text on my phone when I woke up. That's fine.
Because this gives me the space to focus on myself. Space that I needed in my brain, which is still outgrowing its little pot, spreading outward, reaching into parts of me I missed and needed, parts that stuck just out of reach, starved of nutrition and development.
Space to look at my day as a slew of positive or simply present opportunities instead of a vehicle that drags me running behind it. Space to interact. To recognize my needs and limits.
Space to not only be comfortable, but to allow myself to be uncomfortable.
I want control and autonomy back, and I can when I want to now.
Not because of a text, but because of the choice to text.
I don't know which pill that is. But my eyes are open, at least for today, and I am going to keep looking until I understand.