how much is too much?

and am I enough?

So I’ve been thinking a lot about the amount I disclose on this newsletter (honestly this is not a newsletter, maybe we start calling it something different) and while I stopped caring whether or not people think I’m insane a long time ago, I still feel embarrassed sometimes being so transparent. It’s like your favorite song… incredibly exposing. Like it speaks to the depths of you greatest insecurity and holds you til you can come to sanity.

Because, like, who in their right mind would tell stories of themselves taking so many L’s, right?

I don’t really know why I do it. The selfish part of me just wants the platform as a vessel to tell my side of every story because I am an emotional exhibitionist. The empathetic part of me hopes someone else identifies with my struggles and it makes them feel a little less alone. The Third Secret Thing being, obviously, that I’m hoping one day I can base a best-selling book off of it all.

Two selfish reasons, one unselfish.

I’m sitting at the Kona airport in the restaurant. It’s a place 20 years in the past. There’s no Apple Pay. I’m listening to “Skin to Skin” by Movements on repeat and I feel no one has ever experienced the pain and turmoil I’ve gone through to get here. The fights. The tears. The feeling of utter and complete failure.

Failure to be a good mother. Failure to realize my creative endeavors. Failure to pay my bills on time. Failure to be the person I see myself being in my head. So many failures.

All I’m doing is flying an island over to go to work. It’s not that big of a deal. It’s a 27 minute flight. But still that seems like a religious feat in these trying times. I feel like I've been through the trenches to achieve this, but I bet it’s nothing compared to many of you. It’s surely nothing compared to the streets I battled in DTLA going to work at the Déjà Vu. Yet I’m still afraid.

But right now these tears are mine. No one can take them away from me.

I mourn the person I left behind seven year ago when I got into the relationship I’ve been trying to end for years. I mourn the man that actually loved me last summer who I royally fucked over because I was afraid of someone actually knowing who I was at my core.

I was sober for six weeks up until today. Not that big of a deal. I broke it this morning when my ex screamed at me. I’m not blaming him. But it’s hard, you know. Breaking up. Not even the breakup part, but separating the life the you’ve been living together for so long. Pretending everything is okay when if definitely is NOT.

I don’t want this. I don't want any part of this. My heart is somewhere else completely. I’m in love with the music in my head. My heart belongs to the Spotify playlists I curate to make myself feel better. My whole life has been defined by lyrics and they continue to be the only vessel in which I feel seen and heard. It’s the only time i’ve felt validated tbh.

My experiences with music have always churned the depths of my soul. Music has always explained the emotions I could never articulate. I always feel like everyone else could communicate these abstract ideas better than myself.

But I am the one who sees the rays of sunshine when I’m sobbing.

I’m the one who feels these gutting emotions in the pit of my soul and still smiles.

I’m the 34 year old mother of two that feels guilt over wanting the doting 27 year old in my life—choosing love over any and everything, always.

I’m the one that sees the upside of bad and the downside of up.

I should be so much more responsible.

But I am who I am. There is no more regret. There is only me and who I am. There is no use being ashamed anymore.

I’m an okay person. I love. I care. I cherish. I’m awful at times, but no one can ever say I didn’t try.