growing up, I knew how to do one thing well, and that was take care of my mother. after she kicked me out, I didn’t know how to do so many things. I didn’t know how to take care of myself, I didn’t know when to walk away, I didn’t know how to heal from heartbreak. I made so many mistakes for so many years, in those days of pain and longing. I used booze and drugs and bodies to salve my loneliness, I was hurt by so many violent men, I tried to die. I fell in love and love emptied me out—before I realized that wasn’t actually love at all, too many years too late. I still have nightmares of past lovers in my childhood home, tinged with wine and ash. I never thought I would graduate college, I never thought I would have a Home to rest my head. I never thought I’d live to see the day I made it. tomorrow, my sister is getting married to a man who loves her in a way she can feel. I spent so long hoping the men I loved would love me that way too, and when they didn’t, I broke. I crumpled under the pressure of Not Enough and Too Late. I ravenously gouged at love like it was overripe fruit, and then, I drank the elixir of suffering until it was all I was, all that was left. last summer, I shaved my waist length hair off and I saw a psychiatrist, sitting in that uncomfortable navy blue couch a bald baby in ripped jeans sobbing uncontrollably into my hands. I tattooed “NO” on my middle finger and the rune for creativity on my ring finger with a needle and ink—made a silent promise to myself to Try, because trying should have been more important than just being better. as if my Better wasn’t their Better. (it never was.) it is summer again and my hair is growing out and my sister is getting married. we are closer to thirty than we are to twenty and I am so proud of her. she made it. I made it. I still don’t know so many things but I do know this: I am capable and I am worthy of being loved, wholly.


















