When I question whether or not I have grown/am growing as a person, it usually branches out in a multitude of directions. What constitutes as growth? What’s something that’s still healing? What do I need to work on? From these questions, we get lots of sticks and boughs and blossoms. I’m very hard on myself, and it’s something I’m working on. I congratulate myself for not giving in to contacting people, but chastise myself for having them on my mind, or romanticizing certain events. “Remember, they hurt you.” is a common phrase.
I was searching through my old Photobucket account to find a picture for a tumblr post. I happened to find some confession pictures from my PostSecret message board days that made me cringe, laugh, and recall the person I was just about 4 and 5 years ago. It’s been so long that I can’t even recall the actual amount of time. I could just go to the boards and find out, but what’s the point?
I saw about five pictures of my ex boyfriend. I first decided to scold myself for being lazy and not cleaning out the album more often. If I could do it on FB, why didn’t I delete THOSE pics, that were much more intimate? (Okay not intimate intimate, but he was nestled underneath my comforter, dazed and probably annoyed by some asinine manic event I’d created…) Anyway, I deleted them. THEN, I found a couple posts I’d created and added to the confessions board.
An odious arrangement of whiny, mopey “I miss you” and “please love me no matter what” messages that burnt my soul to read! The desperation! The sadness! The one with the pseudo-kid was RIDICULOUS. I looked at the the other night, wondering what was I thinking? I reduced myself to being at the mercy of someone who probably didn’t have me on their radar for one second. Here I was, tap dancing to the same song and dance, thinking about “old times” and hoping for another one of our world-famous go arounds.
I knew that those confessions would fade into the darkness of strangers who knew nothing of the twisted tryst. So it was safe to be as vulnerable and pathetic as possible. I was safe, and the other person would never have the chance to see me at my worst, pining for them. Once it stopped, I just abandoned my account and accepted the fact that I just might not ever find romance/love/lust/whatever again. (Which is a crock of crap, but the well has been dry for a while now.)
I won’t even get into the horror of the Whisper App, full of sticky, disgusting failures that popped into my head about two years after the PostSecret posts. It was like going through withdrawal. After denying any kind of pain, any kind of leftovers of that past tryst, it all came bursting out. Looking back, I can see the growth. I can see where urges and desires have died down. I can see where things have become thought, and not actions. Not petty behavior or contacting. Just thought. Even in my darkest hour, marinating in happy couples and timelines full of sap and romance, I’ve held my own. Sorta.
I’m coming to terms with the fact that yes, I think of certain times, certain people, certain feelings. But to pine, to dwell, to put on the red shoes and let them guide me across the stage? Nah. I kinda feel like that deletion of pics was another part of a long overdue cleansing.
Now, if only I could do something about that joblessness.