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  • Alexandra Hillenbrand

Until It Works

I've taken some time off of writing on here and there's a reason for that. I felt like I kept talking myself in circles, obsessing over my grievances, and trying to dig at the root of the chronic depression I have found myself in. While I meant the words I typed and hoped that in their existence I might find some semblance of peace, I often ended up feeling like I was failing at letting go. And let's be clear, I was.

Turns out, the more you write about how much you can't sleep, the more you can't sleep. You never venture to put your phone on your desk and try to count sheep. Until it works. You say you're not angry, but your fists are always clenched and your teeth are cracking in your jaw. Then, you drink a glass of water and say how you feel out loud and suddenly, you're laughing. At yourself, or in spite of yourself, you're not sure. But, you're willing to admit that you're the sort of person who holds onto things until they boil over. So, when you tell your sister what's bothering you in the kitchen, you both give each other a look and burst out in laughter. You hold onto your hurt, until you want to let it go. Until it works.

The more you try to deny your grief or your emotions, the greater of a personal explosion that results from it. I love closure, but I'm terrible at it. I've come to understand that it will probably never work anyway. If things have ended terribly, they've ended that way for a reason. I wish I could solve every loose end that has ever existed, but I am learning that I cannot. So, instead I started putting down my phone. I traded in 3 am sleepless nights, for 10:30 and sweet dreams. Even what I relive in my sleep no longer scares me. I'll remember the people I loved for the twinkle in their eyes and not the swinging fists.

I'm not one for goodbyes, but they've always found me anyway. I'm not one for giving up, but sometimes it is out of my control. I'm not one for being mean, but I will draw my line. I think that's where my guts have spilled. In my innate desire to please others, people have failed to see the real me. I'm not nearly as soft as people assume, but I certainly try to be. Those who understand who I am, I can only hope to hold their hands forever.

I'll never be perfect and actually, that's okay. But, I had to stop writing about the pain and hoping that closure would magically come under the grains of the hurt. It wouldn't and it wasn't. Maybe the sadness isn't the most interesting thing about me. Maybe I'll be okay. I think I'll be okay.

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