Of False Bravery and Half-Truths

I waited for the elevator to make its way to the ground floor of the parking garage. It was one of those places in downtown Santa Monica that always smells a little like urine, even when it’s not hot outside. The kind of garage that always has a few lights blinking and crackling, threatening to burn out. The kind that makes you wish the sun were still out and that you weren’t by yourself.

The elevator arrived and I stepped on, followed by five men speaking very loud and animated Korean. They smelled like stale beer and cigarettes, and together we more than filled the small space. One of their arms kept brushing against my REI shopping bag, and another gave me a full body scan with his eyes. We had no air left for anyone else to breathe in that elevator, but I wished that someone else would join us. Someone who might make me feel safe.

We began our ascent, only to jerk to a stop and lurch down a few feet before we reached the third floor. The men exclaimed, “Oh My God” in English, while gazing at each other with panicked looks. When they then looked over at me, I smiled calmly, as if we weren’t trapped together in an elevator between floors of a Santa Monica parking garage, instead of driving our cars safely home.“Don’t let them see your fear,” the voice in my head whispered. “They need to think that you’re brave.”

I wasn’t. I was scared even before the elevator doors closed around us. I was scared even after we all got out safely. But I couldn’t let them see that. Maintaining that illusion of bravery felt crucial. If felt like it was all that I had.

It’s what I’ve always done.

When I was a kid, I needed everyone to see that I could do everything considered scary, and do it by myself. That meant not hesitating before diving off the high dive, running to the front of the line to ride the tallest roller coaster, or watching horror movies that secretly terrified me. Often it meant impulsive decisions with little regard for consequences. I was no adrenaline junkie; it was all about trying to manipulate people into seeing me as “brave”. To me, scared equated with weak, and that was unacceptable. Fast forward thirty years later and I’m still that five-year-old kid, yelling, “Look at me! Look at what I can do” from the high dive.

Last weekend, a stranger marveled at the fact that I could attend a friend’s wedding without a date. She could never do that, she told me, unsolicited. She would rather just stay home than ever go to a wedding alone. I was rendered momentarily speechless, as I so often am when someone else voices feelings I don’t want to admit to also having experienced. I quickly moved away from the conversation, eager to get away from her and her (our) fears.

Instead, I went home and rallied against that fear. I posted a status update to my Facebook page that I hoped would reinforce me as that brave, independent person I needed everyone to see.

“If I only went places where someone accompanied me, I would never go anywhere. Don’t be afraid to do the things you want to do because you don’t have a ‘date’. You are your own best company.”

I’ve written before about the importance of loving your life even if it’s not exactly what you pictured. How you can appreciate what you do have, and take advantage of all that comes with it. How traveling alone, for example, can be wonderful and even more fulfilling than traveling with a companion. I even quoted the song “Brave” recently, as a reminder of how important it is to speak use your voice. I know these things are all true.

But.

But. The truth is always in the buts. The howevers. The excepts.

But they’re half-truths, at best. Words that are, indeed, true but that don’t begin to tell the whole story. It’s like stitching together patches of a quilt when you don’t actually know how to sew, and ignoring the holes you’ve left all over. I’ve stitched together this tale about being happy, self-sufficient and brave, while neglecting to mention all the holes throughout: loneliness; sadness; fear. There’s a quilt, sure, but it isn’t the truth.

So here’s the whole truth. The whole truth is that I don’t want to go to weddings alone; I go alone because that’s the best option I have. The whole truth is that I travel alone because I don’t have a partner to travel with me, and the alternative of not going anywhere is so much worse. The whole truth is that I still struggle with speaking up because I am so worried about what others will think. The whole truth is that being single can be liberating and empowering, but simultaneously isolating and terrifying. The whole truth is that I am scared all of the time.

The whole truth is that you can love your life, and still yearn for what is missing.

Sometimes, I take the easy way out, and I pick just half of the truth—the half that doesn’t make me look weak, or feel vulnerable. The half that feels good to post on Facebook. I’m still that little a kid putting on a show. Look at me! Look at what I can do!

It’s difficult to reconcile: being proud of what you can do alone, and desperately wanting to not have to do it.

I wrote earlier this year about how turning 35 meant letting go of a life I had imagined for myself and replacing it with something else, something I was already living. But the real truth there? (Again, the but). I stopped short of the part where I admit that even in my happiness, there is still sadness. That I do still want a husband, and I do still want children. I have accepted that I don’t have them now, and I have made my life work without them because that’s what I had to do. It wasn’t brave, or strong, it just was.

Because you adapt, and you let go, and you accept, or you won’t be able to get out of bed in the morning.

If I could go back and re-write that “Confession: I am 35” essay, if I could post it as a Facebook status with the whole truth, it would read differently.

I am 35, and it’s wonderful, lonely, exciting, full, liberating, strange, multi-faceted, sad, challenging, adventure-filled, eye-opening, ever-changing and completely scary every single day. It’s real life, in all its complexities. 

And it’s mine.

photo (7)

Speak Your Truth

 “No, it’s fine.” 

I could hear the words coming out of my mouth, a common refrain, contradictory in grammar as well as what I really meant by it. Yet, there it was, over and over again, in what sounded uncannily like my voice. To the boyfriend who broke his promises. No, it’s fine. To the family member who wanted everything to just be okay, when it clearly wasn’t. No, it’s fine. To the friend who simply stopped showing up, until she needed something. No, it’s fine.

It was like the chorus of a song that kept repeating, on a radio station whose channel I didn’t know how to change. No, it’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fiiiiiiiiiine.

It was actually kind of easy to utter this phrase. To put what I imagined other people needed before what I needed. To be someone I thought people wanted instead of what was true to me. It was so important that I was seen as “good”. Good girlfriend, good student, good daughter, good sister, good friend, good employee, good everything to everyone.

I’m not sure when it started, this burying of myself to accommodate others. When I was a kid, I was often the outspoken—okay, bossy—one. When I was in high school, I was so singularly focused on becoming an opera singer that I did what was right for me and to further that goal, even if it meant not being cool, or not having boyfriends. I knew, and expressed, what I wanted. 

But somewhere along the way, there was a shift. Perhaps it was subtle at first, so that I didn’t even notice it. Maybe it became more prominent as people began responding. What I do know is that once I felt the acceptance that came along with pleasing people, it was difficult to stop. It became a snowball rolling down a mountain, gathering size and speed until it was bigger than I was, until it completely enveloped me, until it–and I–was was unable to stop.

When you say “No, it’s fine” often enough, you almost start to believe it.

It became second nature. I wasn’t even aware of doing it until someone I didn’t know, someone I only met via phone, pointed it out to me. Her point, in doing so, was that I could never be truly happy unless I was putting myself first. And to put myself first, I needed to start speaking the truth.

We’re never really told that we’re supposed to put ourselves before others. Quite the opposite actually. Selflessness is preached, and giving more is expected. Kindness above all, of course. Why did it take thirty-five years for someone to tell me that it’s okay—no, it’s crucial—to put myself and my well-being first? That is doesn’t mean I’m selfish, or unkind. And why did the idea of doing it create such an intense panic in me?

What if I started expressing my truth, and people didn’t like it? What if they didn’t like me? 

The doubt plagued me, and paralyzed me initially. I almost let myself off the hook: the boyfriend is long gone, along with the friend who wasn’t there for me and easily faded out of my life, so I didn’t need to confront them with my feelings. But my family wasn’t going anywhere. They would need to be the test cases for my honesty, even if it still scared me.  

And then I got into my car one morning, after struggling through yet another night with my fears about speaking up, and the Sara Bareilles song “Brave” was queued up on my iPod. This time, it was a song worth repeating:

And since your history of silence 

Won’t do you any good.

Did you think it would?

Let your words be anything but empty.

Why don’t you tell them the truth?

Say what you wanna say,

And let the words fall out, honestly.

I wanna see you be brave.

And I knew: it was time.

So I tried it. The first conversation was most difficult. There were tears, and bewilderment, and anger, and defensiveness. And a few times, I almost fell back on my previous refrain, that old familiar chorus: No, it’s fine. But really, it wasn’t fine, and being able to finally say it out loud felt like lifting a giant rock from my shoulders. Speaking my truth didn’t change the facts of the situation. It didn’t change the outcome of events. But it changed me. And ultimately, that’s all I can really change anyway. Ultimately, that will be enough.

Change takes time. Speaking up requires determination. Being honest takes courage. But, at the end of the day, our truth is all we have.

Use your voice. Speak your truth. And in Sara’s words, “I wanna see you be brave.”

xx,

Katie

Confession: I Thought It Mattered

I thought it mattered.

 

I thought it mattered if I was thin.
If I was beautiful.
If I was tall.
If I was unblemished.
If I was manicured.
If I was highlighted.
If I was perfect.

One day I learned that it didn’t matter. And I was happy.

But, I forgot, as we sometimes do.

 

Once more, I thought it mattered.

I thought it mattered if I was right.
If I was the fastest.
If I was the strongest.
If I was the smartest.
If I was the first.
If I was the best.
If I was perfect.

Another day arrived, and I remembered that it didn’t matter. And I was happy again.

But, still, I forgot.

 

Yet again, I thought it mattered.

I thought it mattered if people thought I was thin.
If they thought I was beautiful.
If they thought I was smart.
If they thought I was strong.
If they thought I was worthwhile.
If they thought I was lovable.

If they thought I was perfect.

This time, this time I didn’t believe it though. This time I knew, the way I knew the sun rises in the East, and June follows May, and one plus one equals two. I knew that it didn’t matter.

The only thing that mattered was that I lived in truth. My truth. Spoken, felt, shared, lived. Truth.

I will continue to forget, but I will also always remember. And in those moments of recollection, those moments of clarity, those moments of truth…there will be happiness.

 

 

xx,
Katie

Confession: I Take Things Too Personally

“It had nothing to do with me.

I created an entire story around her dislike for me, which didn’t actually exist. It wasn’t about me.

How often do we tell ourselves these stories about why we perceive someone is acting a certain way towards us? How often can we not see past ourselves and our own judgments and neuroses to what is real?

It’s tiring really, taking everything so personally.”

Except from my MindBodyGreen essay today. Please read if you also have trouble taking things too personally. I would love to hear your feedback!

“I’m Beginning to Learn Not to Take Everything Personally”

xx,

Katie

Three Months

Before we were dating, back when we were just friends, my ex once told me that I had “perfect skin”. I don’t remember how it came up as we were driving in my car, or what we could have been talking about that led to that lovely, albeit somewhat unbelievable, compliment. But it stays with me. At the time it was just one of those nice things that someone says that you don’t particularly agree with, but are happy to hear anyway. No, you deflect, no I don’t at all. But secretly you’re pleased. You want to believe it is true.

When we started dating a bit later, I remembered that passing comment, so insignificant at the time, but now, with the attached meaning that hindsight provides, hanging like a sort of albatross around my neck. He thought that I had perfect skin. What if he saw this blemish on my chin, or these lines on my forehead? He must expect that he will always see perfect skin, and what if someday he can see that I most definitely do not have perfect skin? If he thought my skin was perfect, what else needed to be perfect? My hair, my clothes, my body?

So I tried to give him what I thought he wanted to see. Makeup-covered, cutest outfit-wearing, blown-out-hair me. Beyond that, I attempted to BE who I thought he might want to see, might want to love. I tried to be casual (I’m not), I tried to play it cool (nope, not that either) and I tried to seem like the most perfect, has-it-all-together girl he could have ever met (not even a little).

It didn’t take very long for that to crack. There was the time I got a stomach bug on our first trip together. That splintered the image a little. The time I drank too much and cried drunk tears in front of him. That didn’t help the façade. Or when I finally admitted that I really cared, that I wasn’t casual or cool or any of those things he may have thought I was. The crack became an actual break.

Three months. That’s how long I could sustain this persona I had created for myself. That’s how long it took for the real Katie to make an appearance. That’s how long it took for him to realize that the real Katie was not what he signed up for, and not really what, or who, he wanted at all.

When that relationship imploded for the second time, about three months in again for the second time (as so many before it had as well), it broke me. 

The heartbreak, certainly. The pressure of starting over, again, absolutely. But mostly it was the idea that maybe no one would ever be able to be with me for longer than this trial period. That no would decide to keep me for longer than the standard 90-day return policy.

That no one could actually love the real Katie.

It was a dark moment in time, full of confusion and doubt, despair and fear. After so much pretending, I didn’t know who I was anymore. Or how to be someone who somebody would want. I didn’t know if that was even possible.

But from this breakdown came the breakthrough.

Something clearly wasn’t working for me in relationships. Some pattern seemed to be repeating for me regardless of what “type” of guy I dated. Somehow I wasn’t achieving that real, true, lasting connection with anyone. Someone was preventing me from making it past the three month mark.

Me.

Or the “trying-to-be-the-perfect girl” version of me at least. That version was always destined to crack. It would always come up short. It was always doomed to fail. Because it wasn’t real.

The real Katie is very sensitive, and very clumsy, and gets pimples, and has frizzy hair and cares too much most of the time. The real Katie does weird Rain Man-esque things like separate candy by color and only eat the orange ones and memorize numbers and check United miles obsessively. The real Katie likes classical music and Lifetime movies and so many other things that no exes ever knew about.

Maybe if the real Katie showed up at the beginning things would be different. Maybe if there was no façade, if there was nothing to crack, things wouldn’t break. Maybe someone wouldn’t return this real version after three months.

And maybe, just maybe, someone WOULD love real Katie.

beyourself

Confession: Shameless Self-Promotion Follows

“This preoccupation with what I think I see in the mirror threatens the joy in my practice, stuck as I am in my own selfish, torturous thoughts. 

And then, about 40 minutes into this 75 minute self-esteem annihilation, something in me shifts. I think, I can’t possibly do another vinyasa; I’m not even sure I can make it into child’s pose. I’m sweaty, I’m tired, I’m broken.
 
The beauty of yoga, for me, comes in the breakdown. 
 
When the ego finally surrenders and releases. When the heart moves forward, past the head, and opens. When it becomes about the unity and not the self. This is when the magic happens.”
 
This is an excerpt from my newest article on MindBodyGreen. Yes, I have now officially quoted myself. I am, however, so excited to be writing for MindBodyGreen that I don’t even care! 
 
Please visit their site for the rest of the essay “How I Learned To See Beauty When I Look In The Mirror” and comment, share, like, tweet if you feel compelled. I am so grateful for your support as I start branching out (scary!) into new places.
 
THANK YOU ALWAYS! 
 
PS I am also writing for a wonderful site Greenster…check out some of my articles there too!
 
xx,
Katie

Confession: I Wasn’t Paying Attention

I drive home from work
Left on Crescent Heights, past all of the stop signs
Get on the freeway, move to the left lane
Traffic, start and stop, I can do this in my sleep
Am I asleep?
 
I’m not paying attention.
 
I get off at Lincoln
Head to the grocery store
Pick up spinach, milk, chicken, Diet Dr. Brown’s cream soda
It’s always the same
Does it ever change?
 
I’m not paying attention.
 
I stop at the dry cleaners, hand in my ticket
I’m on the phone, I don’t look up
I don’t make eye contact
I’m going through the motions 
Isn’t there more than this?
 
I want to pay attention.
 
I drive down my street
Then I turn again, onto another street
I’m going the wrong way, this isn’t the way home
I don’t know how I got here
Why do I do this?
 
I need to pay attention.
 
I turn around to drive home, it’s ok, I know where to go now
The sun is setting, I can see its spectacular glow
The air is thick, I can smell its ocean salt and its blooming flowers
A bird is chirping, I can hear its beautiful melody
Can I feel it?
 
I am paying attention.
 
I am not asleep
It does change
There is more
I can feel it
Will you too?
 
 
I will pay attention.

Confession: I Saw Love While Leaving Las Vegas

oldcouple

 

I took this picture in the Las Vegas airport. I’m leaving Las Vegas. This is always my favorite part of this trip, the leaving. Vegas is not my town. It reeks to me of booze and smoke and desperation and loss and betrayal. It’s my boulevard of broken dreams. I’m rushing to get to my gate, to get out of this godforsaken city, when I see them.

I don’t know much about the couple. They’re 80, or older perhaps. I make up a little story about them; mingle what I know with my story, with what I hope is true.

They are going back to Kona, where they got married, to celebrate their 60th wedding anniversary. Their children paid for the trip, or maybe their grandchildren even. It is going to be their last big trip because, let’s face it, they’re not getting any younger, and she is getting too frail to travel. They are just as in love now as they were when they got married. Before children, before fights, before affairs, before whatever life did what it does to people. They are more in love now. 

This is the story. Here’s what I actually know:

She loves chocolate; he left her holding her bag, which he told her not to let anyone touch, so he could buy her some chocolate.

They are going to Hawaii, to Kona. They are nervous that our flight is delayed and they might miss their connection.

He wears a hearing aid.

She uses a wheelchair, though maybe just at the airport, because she can walk.

He’s funny, or she thinks he is anyway; she laughed as he popped wheelies with the wheelchair, as he told stories to their new friends who were also going to Hawaii.

She laughs a lot.

They are married; to each other I hope though the rings they wear don’t guarantee that I guess.

They are in love.

I didn’t hear them speak of their love. But I saw the declarations of it as clearly as if they had spray-painted them across the floor in front of gate 55. It was there when he stroked her hair back from her face; when she closed her eyes and tilted her face towards his touch. It was there in her smile back at him as he leaned the wheelchair back onto two wheels, as he sped up and slowed down to her amusement. It was there in their clutched hands as they walked down the aisle to seats 10 C and 10 D. It was there in their gazes at each other when neither was talking, when there was nothing to be said.

It was love.

I’m sure of it. Okay so the details of the story I created were probably false. They don’t really matter anyway. The love was the same. But I needed the story.

Maybe in this story I was projecting the imagined fantasy that I wanted for my grandparents if they both could have lived that long, for my parents if they both could have loved that long. Maybe I was projecting what I want for me. Someone who will push my hair out of my face, who will pop a wheelie with my wheelchair. Someone who will gaze at me long after all the words have been said.

Instead I watch scenes of love as an observer. I sneak pictures and overhear pieces of conversations and make up stories. I choke back tears while I chose the perfect Instagram filter and write a caption that will accurately depict this scene.  But the fact remains.

I’m on the outside, looking in. I always have been. I’ve said some I love yous. I’ve heard some I love yous. And still it’s never been quite right. It’s never FELT quite right. I’ve never known the dialogue, or gotten the notes on blocking that everyone else just seems to inherently know. I can watch the scenes over and over and over and never re-create them for myself.

I haven’t, in 35 years, experienced the kind of love that I saw in 35 minutes in the Vegas airport. It’s not for lack of wanting, or lack of trying, or lack of anything I understand that makes it this way. It just is.

This could be it for me, I think. This could be all it ever is.

But seeing this today, I wonder. Maybe, just maybe, it could be out there still, somewhere between Gates 55 and 58, or between Terminal 1 and Terminal 3, even between Las Vegas and Los Angeles; my very own scenes of love. Maybe the other scenes are here now, all around me, so I will recognize what they should look like when I am finally in the starring role. 

Flight delayed, I’m back at that boulevard of broken dreams of Vegas, seeing the booze and the smoke and the desperation and the loss and even the betrayal. It’s all still there. But this time it’s a little different I think. This time I see the love too. 

Scenes of love, at the airport, in Las Vegas. If I can find them here, I can probably find them anywhere. I can probably even find them for me.

xx,

Katie

Confession: I Did Nothing

On my second day of skiing in Aspen, I’m coasting easily down a green slope, practicing the subtle turns that keep my speed down, able to focus on the beauty of the landscape around me. I’m feeling good until I hit a steep connecting trail that is less groomed than the one I was previously on. Maintaining my speed becomes increasingly difficult, maintaining control even more so. 

I’m not alone here. I see ahead on the hill a girl go down hard, her poles flying and one of her skis popping off. She stays down, sitting and looking around her as if she has no idea how she has gotten there. She looks lost and possibly scared.

I think about pulling up next to her, asking how she is, offering to get her pole for her. I consider assisting in getting her back into her skis. I want to help her. Instead, I hesitate. My fear gets the better of me, my thoughts rushing at me, faster and faster, gaining speed as I barrel down this hill.

“What if I try to stop to help her and I fall? What if I get hurt? What if I crash into her while I am trying to help? What if I make the situation worse?

What if I can’t do anything at all?”

Instead, I ski past. I know immediately it is not the right decision. I pause a distance below her, and from this vantage point I realize I have invoked that same mantra that I have used time and time again when the Universe throws me a curve ball that I refuse to hit, or to catch, or to even acknowledge:

Someone else will do it.

Someone else will invite the new person to join our lunch. Someone else will move to another seat on the plane so that the family can sit together. Someone else will shift their yoga mat to the side to accommodate the person who rushed in late. Someone else will help the lost elderly woman find her way home.

Someone else, someone else, someone else.

I look the other way.

I put my head down, pretend I cannot see what is going on as if this will somehow lessen my accountability. Making myself unavailable before I’m even asked for help. Before anyone can call upon me to act.

But I do see you struggling with your three children and your luggage and your strollers and your passports. I do see you trying to put on your skis without dropping your poles and your gloves but they keep falling down into the snow. I do see you cleaning up the hot coffee you spilled all over the table and floor in Starbucks, making three trips back up to the counter for more napkins to be able to mop up that venti coffee.

And yet I look away.

“Not me,” I seem to be saying. “Not my problem,” I intimate. “Not my responsibility,” I rationalize.

I’m wrong, of course. It is me, it is my problem and it IS my responsibility. To be present, to be mindful, to be helpful. To do something.

Because what if, one day, there is no someone else?

I was lucky with regard to my fallen comrade on the slopes. Someone else did risk falling to help her. Someone else did get her back on her feet, back into her skis. Someone else did care enough to stop. She was okay. But it doesn’t really let me off the hook, does it?

 

I want to be the someone.

 

So that is the new mantra that I need to repeat, over and over, until it happens without any hesitation, so that I can’t possibly ski on past: Do Something. That is my refrain: Do Something.

Drop your poles, spill your coffee, ask me to move, fall in my path.

This time, I will not look away. 

 

xx,

Katie

Confession: I Cried Today

I cried today.

I woke up too early. I called my dad. I went to work. I took conference calls and did a presentation for clients. I went to the grocery store. I skipped yoga. I packed for a ski trip.

And in between, I cried.

A beautiful little boy, I don’t actually know him, is slowly dying. I see his sweet face when I go on Facebook.  His picture pops up in my newsfeed, sometimes in the form of people asking for prayers for him, sometimes as a profile pic. I can see his huge eyes, focused on something past the viewfinder of the camera. Focused on something we can’t see, that probably only he can, in spite of his blindness (or possibly because of it). The light that shines on him seems otherworldly.

I don’t know this baby and yet I cried for him today. I cried first for him, and then for everything else. For my mom and my grandfather, facing the anniversary of my beloved grandmother’s passing this week. For the 4 year old girl we dedicated yoga to last week in New Jersey, just diagnosed with brain cancer. For the one I never talk about, the one who would have been 23 this year, the one whose name I don’t say.

Sometimes it’s just too hard.

M was 2 when I met him during my freshman year of high school. He had a host of medical problems; it was apparent in the way he looked, in his development. I don’t know if I ever understood exactly what he was dealing with medically, or if I’m just not remembering now. But I knew it was serious.

The light that radiated off this kid was blinding. He was universally adored by anyone who spent time with him. If he said your name, you melted. You felt like a chosen one. He didn’t look like everyone else, and I think now, of course not. He was too special to look the same. He was the best of all of us.

He was my idol’s son. I can call her that, because I actually worshipped her. She was the one I put on a pedestal, the one whose opinion mattered most. If she asked, the answer was always yes. I believed my every success was due to her. When I was 17, and M was 5, she asked me to babysit for him over the summer. I knew this meant that I was special. The answer, of course, was yes.

We did a trial run or two, making sure I was strong enough to lift him, knew how to feed him and clean his trach after lunch. He was comfortable with me. She made a recording of him asking “Katie coming tomorrow?” the weekend before my first day.

I babysat once, on a Monday. That’s all I can remember, though maybe there were more times. We read books, we taped ourselves laughing, we wrote stories in a journal, we talked about Elmo and how silly Elmo was. He loved Elmo. He loved being silly. I repeated the same jokes over and over again until they were ours, just for us.

The next day he died.

His heart just slowed down and stopped beating in the bathroom that night. When his mother, my idol, called and woke me with the news the following morning, nothing made sense. My mom handed me the cordless phone and I knew, even in my sleepy haze, that something had happened. But not that.

The summer was a blur. The school year started again and it was all the same but everything was different. The ones who loved him were all different.

The distance happened after I left for college. Distance would have been natural anyway, as 1200 miles will do to people. I didn’t realize until after it happened that I had been written out of the end of this story. There would be no tearful reunions, no coffee dates to catch up after a semester away. There would be nothing, just an end; not even acknowledged, just observed.

I tried. I attempted to write myself back in. I begged really. Please don’t cut me out of your life. Please still love me. How could someone I loved as a mentor for 5 years just walk away? How could the person I picked up off the floor and propped up for a year of hell see through me as if I wasn’t even there?

What I didn’t know then was that I had been written out of the beginning of the story too. There could be no happy ending because I didn’t exist in the beginning anymore. I was simply erased from the record books, stripped of the medals earned loving this child and his mother. When I got a blank stare, it’s because she really didn’t see me anymore. I wasn’t there.

I don’t know if I will ever understand why my part was eliminated, why I got killed off like a character leaving the tv show before the end of the season, easily disposed. Maybe she thinks it is my fault. Maybe I do too. For 15 years I have wondered, and no answers ever materialize. I am resigned to this. As my friend would say, “And so it is.”

I stopped grieving back then. How could I grieve a little boy who I loved when it didn’t feel like I was allowed to have loved him anymore?

So I shut down.

I stopped visiting his grave, I stopped acknowledging the anniversary of his death, I stopped reaching out to my idol. I accepted this new story that was written.

I don’t anymore. I can’t write myself back into the end of this story, but I can claim my part in the beginning. It’s time.

Today I cry for Ronan, and pray for his family. I cry for my mom, and my grandfather, and that little girl in NJ.

And I cry for M. I loved you. I’ve never forgotten.

You will always be part of my story.

xx,
Katie