A few things I can't share have happened in the past few weeks.
I hate announcing at the outset that I have secrets because it's sort of like saying to a friend "I need to tell you something... oh nevermind, I can't."
And everyone hates that girl.
So I'm sitting here drinking tea and trying to think of the best way to dance around what actually happened while still sharing what I've carried away from the wreckage.
Emily has christened me Velveteen Lyndsey. It's so funny to think of myself that way.
I've learned a lot from this.
Picture me falling apart while writing that sentence and taking a few minutes to compose myself and come back.
I think it's okay to lose your bearings every once in a while so long as you always work to get them back.
Because if you don't let the hurt and the fear in—if you don't cry or say the wrong thing to the wrong person—if you can really, truly, just put on your grown up suit every day and cheerfully carry on to work when bad things happen... you're a sociopath, right?
I can't believe I used to pride myself on how well I handled a crisis.
Like I deserved a red balloon for being able to cook meals while mourning a friend.
Sometimes everything falls apart. Sometimes dark things remind you that they exist and you learn that even though you thought you knew yourself and knew your limits and capacity for pain—you were absolutely wrong.
And that's okay.
