Simply sitting with my emotions, feeling them and processing them was unavoidable as a solo dweller; even with five magazine subscriptions, Netflix and a constant supply of red wine. But, according to my therapist, sitting with my emotions was exactly what I needed to do in order to heal. That was a complicated task for this typically cerebral Indie Girl to wrap her brain around because I was certainly feeling stuff but I didn't feel as if I was any closer to healing. Maybe I just wasn't feeling things correctly. Perhaps I needed some type of class or at least a progress chart to make sure I was doing this healing shit right. All I knew was that I wanted some type of guarantee that I was on my way back to happiness because, returning to the normal state of Keex, seemed like the impossible dream. I felt damaged for life and far from happy. This was incredibly discouraging because, according to my timetable, the grieving and woe-is-me should've long been over. After a whole year, my emotions still felt raw, heavy, burdensome, uncomfortable and icky. Although I definitely experienced longer periods of levity, without warning I could sink into a deep, thick funk. Misdirected, anger-filled expletives targeted at no one in particular would fly out of my mouth as quickly and easily as tears would flow from my eyes. Was this me processing anger and sadness or was I just an out of control emotional bitch that needed meds? I'd try to convince myself "everything's gonna be okay, Keex" but, for the first time in my life, you could call me moody. I didn't mean to be. I felt like I was under the control of something greater than myself. Split personality disorder, perhaps?
Personality #1 was the depressed and dejected divorcee-in-the-making who preferred to stay holed up in her studio apartment watching movies with her dog and a bottle of red. The outside world was absolutely unnecessary. I journaled voraciously, danced around my apartment naked and immersed myself in all seven seasons of Lost as a way of escape and catharsis. When I needed my friends, there was e-mail, Facebook, Twitter and texting. If I felt desperate for retail therapy or male attention, they were a mere click away thanks to Zappos and Match.com. A hot pair of heels or winks from a hottie could be delivered to my apartment with no obligation. And I even bookmarked freshdirect.com just in case the walk to the grocery store got to be far too overwhelming. Yes, I quickly learned that today's technology completely enables single-itis.
The only real reason for me to leave my comfy home refuge was for work or therapy. And that's when I'd morph into Personality #2: the smiling, successful, indiegirlicious survivalist full of personality and positivity. So what if I got dumped, cheated on and lied to by the love of my life? So what if I lost my life partner, best friend and extended family? So what if my vision for the future had been irrevocably changed and currently nebulous? So what if my sense of security had been snatched from beneath my feet and I no longer knew how to trust anyone or even myself? And SO WHAT if life as I knew it would never, EVER be the same because I, YES I, found the courage to grab life by the balls, seize an opportunity to move across country and start a new life with the determination to somehow become abundantly happy and more successful than I ever could've imagined. It was either blind faith or stupidity. But I was defying the odds when I simply could've fallen apart. Well, that's what my friends and therapist applauded me for so I pretended to be proud of myself too. I honestly couldn't internalize this as any type of bold achievement on my part because I still wasn't happy. I was just a bitch tryin' to survive.