Fix Me. I’m Broken.

The thing with having a healthy love relationship with someone that you hope to spend the rest of your life with is in having to reveal the bad and the ugly. What sucks is that it’s usually not a one-time deal either. Lately I’ve been feeling like the Awesome Blossom Chili’s used to have on their menu. There are like a hundred layers of fried crap and fat sticking out of a vegetable that slightly resembles a flower. If you pluck off and eat one layer of this fried beauty, guess what? There are 99 more layers you can pluck off and eat.

It seems every now and then (or a lot in the past few weeks) I have to talk with my beau about something from my past that affects me in some way still today. (One layer of the Awesome Blossom is ripped off, only for him to see more layers of crunchy-bad-for-you-friedness right below and around it). Sometimes the conversations revolve around things that I’m dealing with today that, though will make a better and healthier person, are just embarrassing to admit. Or things I have to apologize for. Or things that put my emotional scars on display. Or things that make me look like I don’t have it all together all the time (which I don’t, but still…)

This type of vulnerable sharing makes me feel tired. Frustrated. Used up and washed out. It makes me feel broken, like I need to be bubble-wrapped, duct-taped, packaged, and UPSd to a remote factory where they fix people. Hmmm, what does this broken instrument need? How about we wind AJ up top, take the bottom screw out of her right ventricle, insert a metal pin in the left side of her brain, throw her in the wash, let her air dry, and give her an apple. Except that’s not gonna happen.

When I expose my inner issues and struggles and fears and doubts and subsequently feel like a stopwatch that’s been mauled by a Rottweiler, I have to remember it’s just feelings of inadequacy that make me feel broken, the razor sharp lies from the ghosts of yesterday and today that can make my self-worth crumble like a Graham cracker. But that insecurity doesn’t dictate the beauty and juicy goodness that embodies who I truly am, nor the beauty and juicy goodness of G-d, who has so lovingly and carefully designed me from even before I was born.

And you know what else? The truth is, sometimes digging deep into those dark places of confession, the breeding ground for secrets and things that have the power to control us, is the best way to bring them into the light and maybe take some of that destructive power away. Maybe the bad and ugly stuff is like vampires. Maybe, like those creatures of the night, my sharings go nuts when they see sunlight and are rendered useless. I hope so.

For now, I’ll keep on being open and honest and willing to walk into the fissures of my being that I so desperately protect and keep roped off. Though certain things are uncomfortable and annoying to share or discuss, I think they’re necessary. Exposing your true self (to the right people, of course, and in a healthy way) is probably one of the most empowering things you can do. It takes chutzpah. It takes courage. And there’s a certain element in freedom when you take the stuff you’ve been carrying around on your back for a long time and chuck it on the ground. But it shouldn’t stay there. I need to remember to kick that baggage toward G-d instead of allowing it to make me feel broken. He may not be a fix-it repair guy, but I hear he’s a pretty good recycler.

Wahhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I miss my sister and she hasn’t even left yet.

I live on the East Coast. She is smack in the middle of the Bible Belt, only a few days away from trekking her way to Oregon. There she will be in a different time zone, in a different environment, with different people. And though we are now in different time zones, in different environments, and with different people, we are still connected. Very much so. And I’m scared that her move will abort that connection. And that fear is making me burst out in tears at random moments in the day. Which is very inconvenient. Especially if I am wearing mascara.

My sister is awesome. I admire her, in one way, because her being is embodied by adventure. Whether it was deciding at 17 to join the Army against my parent’s strong protests, or running for a student body position at college where she virtually knew no one, or giving up a cushy job to work for a dot com for peanuts, or living in Thailand in a hut and taking up Muay Thai, or constantly working against the grain of societal norms, assumptions, and rules, I am in awe of the things she does. My sister is the queen undertaker of the unconventional. Her bravery challenges me.

She is also intuitive and smart. When I am running the gamut of bubbling emotions, my sister is my calming equilibrium. She is refreshingly adept at guiding me toward a change of perspective, a new way of thinking, to get me through whatever I need getting through.

And even though we have lived in different states for the last three years and have been distanced by countries at times, I feel her move to Oregon means she is pulling herself further away from me. Though, deep down, I know this is not true. I believe in my sister and want the best for her. But the selfish part of me is screaming out for her to move to NJ and stay with me. I want to put her in my pocket and keep her with me forever. But that is just dumb.

You know what? I’m just gonna miss her. And deep down inside, all this fear and missing and thinking and sadness is just fluff on top of the real issue. I just don’t want Viv to forget me. Ever.