The end of June looks like tan lines awkwardly criss-crossing patterns across my skin. It looks like a thickness to the air, sweat that curls tendrils of hair at the base of my neck, clothes sticking to skin. It looks like a re-wiring of my sleep habits, before I used to go to sleep when the sun rose, now I rise with it.
When I was young June meant the end of school, now I’m just finishing up my first week of college. College. I’m in college?! I guess it’s still sinking in. I used to think post-secondary and I were two lines destined to remain parallel to one another, never intersecting. Now I’m in the intersection and I can’t remember how I got here. But I’m glad. I’m proud of myself.
I feel like people don’t tell themselves they’re proud of their own accomplishments enough. We hold ourselves to high standards, seldom stopping to pat ourselves on the back for the victories we secure.
I’m trying to change my thinking patterns. Sure, I’ve made leaps and bounds but I’m still figuring myself out. I’d like to be my own support system. I’d like to put a muzzle on all the self-destructive voices yelling criticisms in my head. I’d like to believe down to my very core that I deserve the best from life.
I’m getting there.
I’m grateful for my friends. I think I’ve got some of the best ones life has to offer. If I linger on this topic for too long I’ll turn to mush, gushing about how much love I possess for the people I hold near and dear. There’s maturity in the friendships I have, communication comes easily and no one is hiding sharpened teeth behind saccharine smiles that cut through you with their sweetness that is both sickening and prickly.
I’ve started to forget the names of people from high-school. A feat that’s hard when you grew up in a small town. The other day someone asked me the last name of a boy in our graduating class and it took me at least 10 guesses to get it right. My mind is reshaping itself, prioritizing information and putting unnecessary tidbits on the back of a shelf, just out of my reach.
I still remember every emotion that starred center stage in my juvenile days though, some wounds don’t fade. They reopen and scab enough times that eventually an unsightly scar is left as a tattoo, a signature of everyone that hurt you. Part of me thinks that people see all my scar-tissue and get too afraid to touch me. Maybe they think my burdens will contaminate them too.
I really like my own company. But-
-sometimes I get so damn lonely.
I wish I was a little bit braver, a little bit softer. I wish I understood love, it’s still a big old mystery to me, and sometimes the idea of throwing myself back into the belly of the beast terrifies me.
I don’t want to be made a fool of again.
But June is receding. And maybe something within me is snapping. The other day I felt optimistic about romance. I’m usually a cynic, all tooth and nail and gore.
Maybe not anymore. Maybe the self love I’ve been actively developing for what feels like a lifetime but in reality has only been a couple of years is actually starting to take. I’ve stopped thinking everything I say is an awkward faux-pas, and that within itself is a triumph.
The end of June is upon us and I am a cocktail of hopeful and quiet, with a dash of fear and insecurity.
July, let’s make you a kind month.
until next time,