I’m ready for it.
Meet me at midnight.
I feel as though I’m about to walk the stage. Have a T. Swift moment. Where I have to remember to pick up my knees when I walk. As if gravity is working on overdrive.
I just wanna stay in that lavender haze.
Maybe it’s just something she had to say. Because I just did. I don’t even know what I want out of a lavender haze. But obviously something good.
This is where I confront my trauma. Head on. I’m tackling trauma. And writing. A two-fer.
In therapy today, my therapist said, “let’s try a new technique.”
She asked me what I need to do to get over my trauma – like what does that look like – what are my first steps?
I said to her, “I need to have some form of stability in my life.”
My professional career feels absolutely stagnant. My personal identity just feels like a complete total shit-show. Honestly, I had such higher hopes for 2026, but it feels as though I am just persistent in my optimism. Like it’s as if I’m just standing by watching a train wreck happen before my eyes, and somehow, I stay just off the tracks from it, cheering and applauding, keeping everyone else that was flung clear, like really positive, like, “Yeah! This is supposed to happen!”
I don’t know.
Sometimes I wonder what it would be like for things to just be a little easier, but I wonder how many other people are feeling just that same way, and I guess that’s the spectrum of humanity.
But in therapy today, we talked a little bit about my mom. I don’t really have the best relationship with my mom. It pains me to say that. Really pains me. But it’s a fact, and my task in therapy, as part of an initial step in trauma therapy, was to try to parent my younger self.
Imagine a 5-year-old version of me. That’s what I was told, and I started giggling, and I could not stop laughing when she told me to imagine that, and I just said, “I’m sorry, all I can imagine is this freaking chatterbox child, and I just need her to be quiet.”
My therapist bowed her head, smiled and said, “OK, maybe we go younger.”
She said, “How about 3?”
I said, “Amazing. I’m playing in a box.”
She replied, “Fantastic.”
She paused and delicately cradled her hands in her lap, and gently said, “So this is likely when it started.”
She paused, I think for my realization, and then continued.
“What are some of the things that you would say to you?”
And with that question, she concluded our therapy session. Some food for thought. Hmmmm, what a peculiar assignment I was tasked with. Well, now I sit here and I have me, myself, and I and la computadora. Might as well try.
I wonder if I’m still bald at 3.
I was a bald ass baby for a long time.
Who knows when I grew hair.
I might still be bald.
Okay….stop. Stop letting humor armor you.
Sigh.
I’m in the box.
I’m fucking cute; big brown eyes. Scrawny legs. Nubby little knees. It pained me to type the “l” on little because I really wanted to say wittle.
I can’t stop smiling.
It’s as if I can feel sunshine right now, except all I hear are the crickets and bullfrogs.
That little girl. So innocent.
But she’s already so badass. She came out swingin’ for a reason.
No, holy shit, I’m starting to tear up right now.
I’m thinking of what I would say to her…
“Umm, I love you.”
“You’re perfect in every way.”
“Look how tiny and mighty you are.”
“You are so tiny and so, so, so mighty.”
“You’re gonna make yourself so proud one of these days.”
I had to take some pause after that. There’s no way the written word can translate the visceral reaction evoked from saying those statements to myself. Out loud. That is fucking therapy.
Figuring it out, one day at a time.
