Late Bloomer

by Mazey Eddings

my dominant personality trait is pleasing others. I have about as much backbone as a cooked spaghetti noodle.

And that’s my problem. I’m so hungry to connect with someone—anyone—I settle for crumbs and pretend like they’re a full meal.

But stagnation is comfortable. Making a change takes bravery, a willingness to declare what I want then be swept into the unknown consequences of it. If I never move, nothing ever changes, but if nothing ever changes, I can’t be crushed by the disappointment of it not working

Sometimes I hate myself. I hate my meekness and my boldness. I hate my fear and my audacity to try. Sometimes the hate digs its roots in so deep, it feels like it is me. I hate that hate. I have endless grace for everyone in the world, but none for myself. Why am I not allowed to make mistakes? Why does my compassion stretch to strangers but stop at my own front door?

Why am I feeling so much and all at once? All I know is that life is hard and it’s lonely and feelings are sharp and big and somehow we’re supposed to spend every day of our life facing them.

Grief is a strange beast. It can lie dormant for weeks. Months. You can go through the motions of life and truly convince yourself you’re healed and fine and will actually survive the heartache of loss. And then, like the flip of a switch, it rears its head and snaps its jaws, hungry and ready to devour you whole.

Fuck anything and anyone that made you have to survive instead of live. You deserve a life so peaceful it feels deliciously boring. A life filled with flowers and sunny days and people who show you all the time that you’re valued and worthy. You deserve it all.”

“I love you in the most basic and complicated and overwhelming and simple and inevitable way possible.