I could begin here
a friendship with you, 3-years of therapy, and my period beginning again
I could begin here, where the drawer squeaks when I open it to grab my headphones so I can watch the video I made in time for her birthday last fall. I could begin here, where I have the freedom to put the perfect Taylor Swift song as the video’s soundtrack, because I know it will be for our eyes only.
I could begin here, where Winter refuses to let go and the sweater I’m wearing is too warm to be worn inside, but I wear it anyway, because it reminds me of our days driving on roads where the fuchsia hedges, dripping in purple and pink flowers, towered over us for miles and miles, while we continued to settle into our place on the other side of the road, snacks and maps in tow.
With our tiny car packed to the brim with compact watercolor kits, leather-bound notebooks, matching rain jackets, cameras, and other adventure essentials, I am reminded of the trips I took when I was younger, except now it’s just us, pulling over every 5-minutes to take pictures of the heather and the ocean and each other beaming, before squealing and jumping back in the car, eager to find out what’s around the next corner.
I could begin here, where it feels as if it’s been a lifetime since we curled over our suitcases, planning and packing and repacking for rainy weather, when what we ended up with was sunshine and blue skies and a sea of never-ending green, where sheep roamed freely and old stone walls are somehow still standing, standing so high that I have to press myself up onto my tiptoes to see over—my gosh this place is so beautiful, and what a thing it was for us to finally say ok we’re going and we can do this and no, the timing will never be right, but here are our tickets and look, our bags are finally packed so I guess this is happening.
I could begin here, where I know how selfish it is to wonder what it would be like to go on the trip now that I feel so much more sure of it all. When I feel like I could be better for her and for me and maybe able take it all in a little more softly and patiently, but as I look at the giddy faces on the polaroids we took, I know what a thing it was to have gone when we did and to have learned how to be ourselves with each other—knowing that the joy of it and the mess of it can never be separated, and how I’m not sure I’d ever want them to be.
I could begin here, where I’m thinking about my upcoming therapy session and bothered that I’m always thinking and thinking. Thinking about how I do not get to decide what someone else is feeling, and that I am the only one stopping myself from believing them when they say I love being your friend, because sometimes this is just me and I know we’re both trying to understand, and so let’s venture out again, winding our way through cobblestoned streets to buy matching rings that remind me of every moment leading up to this one, and how the pub is so loud, too loud, but in watching the way your face lights up every time the live music begins to play, I lean in closer. And now the world outside grows darker and darker until it’s just us and the moon and our arms swinging at our sides, making our way back to our room that sits just above the winding canal and the stirring of birds and a softness I haven’t found the words for yet.
I could begin here, where I am looking out the window at the sun shining and the snow slowly melting and I’m thinking about breakfast and what comes after breakfast and the way I didn’t recognize my period beginning, after over a year without one. I tell myself that I should have tried harder to get it back sooner, but that you also can’t try too hard or care too much because otherwise the stress might consume you and you won’t be able to move from one moment to the next without thinking that you’re just a problem that needs to be solved. That you won’t be able to get to where you want to go, until you’ve fixed and mended and made sense of it all.
My therapist is looking at me and nodding, her kind eyes saying yes yes, all of that is true, but let’s also look at what it means to disconnect from a part of yourself, as a way to protect yourself? And without realizing it, I’m moving, placing my hands over where they cut me open and I understand that sometimes, there is only room for one thing at a time (that is, until we feel safe enough to bring each piece back in, one by one).
My fingers tighten and let go and soon I hear myself telling her that even though I’m always worried I haven’t done enough, I am proud of the progress that has been made and how much closer I am to experiencing joy, and not just the kind of joy I find in books or long walks or time spent with my dog, but a lasting kind of joy. A joy that you can soften into. A joy that isn’t always worried about what might happen next. A joy that says: you are safe to feel what you’re feeling. You are safe to be loved by others. You are safe to love yourself, but please, take care and don’t rush. We’ll be here whenever you’re ready.
I could begin here, where I’m home from therapy and with a steaming cup of chai, still feeling too warm in my sweater, but refusing to take it off because I am convinced that it helps me to write and make sense of what I’m feeling and where I am going.
Beginning here means we’ll have to squint our eyes when we go outside because the sun is too bright and there’s still snow on the ground and maybe we’ll go for a walk together. Maybe we’ll grab our sunglasses from the car and you’ll tell me about the time you had to let something go or applied for that job or worried about your pet getting older and older, and then maybe we’ll talk about that trip we took last fall where we had fresh cake and tea delivered to our room and wore sundresses through the garden and ran down impossibly green hills that overlooked the Atlantic ocean and watched sunsets and drove and drove and learned what it meant to be there with each other, without fixing or trying too hard to make sense of what we just don’t know yet.
And I’ll begin to tell you how sometimes it feels good to try and control how the world sees you, but isn’t it so much better when we can just let go a little? When we can go ok, I’m going to do this thing because it feels good for me and I’ll trust that you do what feels good for you and yes, we’ll do it differently, but I think that’s what makes us better together. That learning how to be there for you, has shown me all the ways I can be there for myself, too.
And so, my hope is that we’ll keep learning and making more and more room for the breakdowns and the quiet nights reading and the spontaneous adventures where we’ll stay up too late and make a mess and tidy it all up again and I’ll find myself turning to you to smile or cry or laugh and say yes yes, to all of it.
With love,
Chloe
EPILOGUE
The heater just came on and 5-minutes ago, I was walking around the house reading this email draft aloud, listening carefully for grammatical errors, while also trying to step back and away from the critical ear of the person who wrote it.
I had planned this piece differently to how it turned out, but I also really enjoyed the process of following the story (instead of it following me).
It’s about friendship, yes, but it’s also about getting older and being in awe of the things you can continue to learn about yourself, and how the learning itself never ends, and that you’ll keep discovering what it means to be a friend (to yourself and to others), over and over again. It’s never tidy and it’s never what you’d expect it to be, but it is always worth it. Worth it to lean in a little bit closer. To trust that you’ll know when to let go and when to say let’s try that again.
This is dedicated to Emily.
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