I want to be done performing for you. Bending in all the ways I don’t fit inside of myself just to be palatable for your preferences. You should have preferences and know the kinds of people who you want to be around and you should find those people and invest in those relationships, but asking me to be your surrogate scape goat of comfort isn’t fair to either of us. To any of us. I’ve gone rigid in my defiance to stand tall near you, unmoving, unable to waver. And I want to be able to dance again, to move my body and manage myself in a room without worrying whether or not you approve.
So I’m done. Right now, this moment, I declare myself capable.
You will feel neglect and shock and anger at my unwinding from your tightly coiled hold on my agency and you will want to fix this. But I am not for fixing.
I am for living. I am for loving. I am for leaving all of you behind.
Why do we only look for signs of trouble after an announcement has been made? Divorce? When did it go wrong? As if dissecting every red flag will neatly package up someone’s else’s problems as all of our solutions.
Some people talk with their hands, littering the air with their punctuation fists and elbows. But I talk with my whole face, seeing for the first time or reliving this exact moment again; the only way you’ll understand what I mean is when you pay attention to where my eyes dart.
Em dashes of my mind. Every breath a comma, every intentional pause a period. My hands might creep up as an aide but what I’m really saying – all of the time – is are you even paying attention?