My reaction to seeing him around campus has transitioned from nausea and clenched fists to deep breaths and still clenched fists, this small progress resulting from 2 years of therapy and breakdowns and far too many read throughs of Milk and Honey. I treat each day that I do not think of him as a small victory, and I wonder if or when this occurrence will be so normal that I won’t have to celebrate it.
It is 2 years later, and I am still learning how to be broken and beautiful at the same time, holding my two truths in tandem, giving each the recognition and respect they deserve. 2 years later and I am still working hard, every day, to see the value in myself, to own and embrace a body that he stretched in while I shrank.
This is not an easy thing. It is exhausting, frustrating, scary, really. But there are no roots more intimate, more powerful, than those between a mind and body that have decided to feel whole.
Sometime in these past 2 years, I decided to feel whole, and now, finally, I do feel whole. I am more able to appreciate my softness and my callouses, my boldness and my fears. I am more able to love friends, love boyfriends, love girlfriends, love acquaintances and strangers and, most importantly, love myself, more truly, deeply, and fully.
What he did, what happened, will always be with me, but I’m counting the victories, and looking forward to the day I lose track.