My terms.

On my terms

I had happened upon this term two years ago. In the middle of a quarter-life crisis, I sat in an office in my hometown and pondered this, frankly, entitled view of the world.

On my terms.

What did that even mean?

Just over a week ago a guy I had been seeing and I ended things. It was at that point in the relationship where he could step up or step out, and his words and actions screamed, “I’m out.” Of course, that was masked with ambiguity and indecision that caused me to spoon-feed him the answer to his ponderings. But if we’re honest, I too debated whether I was in or out most days of the week. Something didn’t feel sustainable like I had hit a brick wall or he had, or maybe we both had.

And that’s always a sad feeling. Seeing effort and trust washed away because your expectations were higher (more on that in another post) or you had hope in things that may not come to fruition (more on that later, as well). That’s sad. There is space and grace to be mad and worried about things ending, but before our final discussion, I took advice meant for someone else. On a phone call, I overheard, “You have a choice, too.”

Ah, On my terms.

I finally got it.

When we met up (at my least favorite coffee spot in ALL of LA, let it be known)* I said a few things that won’t be categorized as my most beautiful moments, I was on the brink of tears most of the conversation, but when I said, “bye” and turned around, I left on my terms. I didn’t look back. I walked away with the biggest smile on my face.

Now I got to the car and cried… but I kept smiling, and I haven’t stopped since. It helped that my phone was blowing up with texts from my ride-or-dies through the entire conversation. It was fun to feel the vibrations go off during the conversation and I knew another one of my fellow warriors was showering me with love and light.

And I don’t want to sound callous. Sure, this is hard. I’ve cried a lot. I get momentarily lonely. Rage is a new feeling that I am letting into my life. I even made the awkward faux pas of unliking then re-liking then unliking an Instagram picture, all while trying to make sure my tag was taken off for my privacy (my life guys, seriously). And, I’ve had a few moments of honestly missing the man I had gotten to know. And I’ve missed the man I wanted him to be (again, expectations in a different post), but mostly (and this is where we get real real, you and I)… I miss the rollercoaster. Honest to God. I miss the hell out of his neurosis!

I accepted and welcomed the nuts of chocolate. The Hullabaloo. The crazy. I fed off of it. And as crass and brutal as it sounds, that’s what I’ve had the most challenging time mourning.

And that’s when you say, “Corinne, you’re a sick fuck!”

And this is where I go, “Yup!”

So I marched my ass into an Al-Anon meeting and haven’t looked back.

Let me rephrase that, On my terms, I became my qualifier for a recovery program.

I’m someone whose mind races a thousand miles a minute overanalyzing thoughts, feelings, and action; I’m a woman who is continually moving a thousand different pieces, holding an imaginary, albeit unbearable, amount of weight and expectation, and making a bigger mess out of her serenity in the process.

So I’ve come to realize that I too have some crazy and that I have also been mourning the loss of coping mechanisms that have been deemed unhelpful. I’m sad about my unmanageability. I’m convinced that there is nothing more irritating than telling a perfectionist that she can’t do something or that she can’t handle something.

I can handle whatever life throws at me! I’m a duck for the love of God!

But no. No, I can’t.

No, I won’t.

Surrender.

My terms.

So this has also been the best week of my life. And I’m joyful. And I’m realistic. Shoot me a text, and I’ll tell you exactly what emotion I’m feeling right this moment.

Sadness, happiness, that rage I talked about (I legitimately destroyed my bookcase). We only speak the truth here.

I’ve also drunk an absurd amount of LaCroix. Ask me about my LaCroix addiction!

I joke. Kind of.

But it’s been an excellent week because on my terms, in my way, honoring my experience, I’ve started to offer up, and turn over parts of me that have hurt since before I could cope with even the most simple of emotions.

And that is something to be thankful for.

 

 

 

*I hate Intelligencia. I’m willing to admit that it may be my palette, but I think all of their coffee tastes like sewage. Just a snarky FYI.

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