the rotten pound of flesh

the most important part of getting past something is to expose it to daylight so it can be seen, acknowledged, and eventually live in the past. several abandonded drafts have come and gone, of outrage and resentment. making people see my pain doesn't actually address my pain. the pound of flesh i'm determined to have has already rotted between my teeth.

i have been binging couples content to try and dissect what i didn't have the chance to operate on. countless paint swatches held up to the mirror in hopes of finding a telling match. "I don't like to give attention to him" flatly said, from an overextended follower of the Fake It 'Til You Make It MLM stayed with me. problem statement, red flag, and takeaway rolled together so succinctly.

socially it feels like i'm the sucker punchline at the end of a three year conversation had with everyone else but me. the tragedy lies in that words were what brought us together, from thousands of miles apart. these same words are what shattered us, over and over again. the omission of words, the harshest judgement.

the struggle that's left is mourning the loss of my identity within a society. it's as if the Seattle trees i have watered for decades have borne fruit from my time, care, and attention. that fruit has been cherry-picked and stolen, its nourishment taken. the narrative being told to mutual friends isn't the reality, because the reality is woven and wounded and wishes to be forgotten about, but the reality is that people choose sides and a whole lot of people stopped talking to me.

this year has been spent replanting myself among those that see me. not a single person from my widest (most shallow?) social circle has asked me if i'm okay, and that's not okay. rows and rows of human-sized cardboard cutouts blown over by the torrential awkward silence. on the back of each is scrawled paragraphs of exclusionary legalese. it's incredibly disconnecting when you pride yourself on being there when others need an ear or a hand and you aren't given that in kind.



the end of summer has left me restless, a welcome change from seasons of numb. my primal instict is to put a down payment on another nest, to pull my things out of storage and surround myself with proof of my existence. but i know that my way forward is being open to opportunity and i just need the patience to get there. past me has gifted present me with the adventure i need when i depart Canada in 21 days.

i write about this because i want it to remain in the archives. i am back to living for myself and want this space to reflect the privilege and sanctity of the now. Montreal is not the solution to any of my problems but it has given me a forced perspective shift that allows me insights i wouldn't have by simply replaying old habits.

besides, the baked goods are to die for.