Clam chowder and salty ocean air

I started reading this book the other day by one of my comfort authors Emily Henry - it's her newest book that came out this summer - Great Big Beautiful Life. I'm only a few chapters in but the writing style soothes me in a way that makes my mind travel to places that once also brought me comfort in real life. Her books are usually set in a small town, most times it's somewhere in Michigan nearby a lake. This time, it's a small island in Georgia.

I don't think about this often but this morning, the thought crept in like both a happy memory and simultaneously, one I like to forget. Four years ago, sometime right around this time, I spent a month worth of summer on the east coast, bouncing between a small town in Rhode Island and Cape Cod. While the company edged on a feeling that I knew wasn't right at my core, I look back at that time with a lens of fondness for what it was. I like to think that everything happens for a reason and a person's presence and the space they take up means something - or that maybe one day, it will mean something.

It's kind of odd, I will say, that when I think of that summer, I don't necessarily think about the company I had, but rather, what being there felt like. I think about strolling the streets of Newport and feeling like that nautical, picturesque city, it could heal so much of me if I gave it enough time. I think about the iced lattes at those small coffee shops, the locals that entered and knew the barista by name, the smell of the ocean with every breeze that picked up a strand of hair, blowing it away from my shoulder and leaving my skin uncovered for the sun to give it a kiss. I loved being there and while at the time I felt like it was all because of the man that I was with and loved, I know now that he played an insignificant role in just how the east coast touched me.

I think that in some sense, these books, they do the same thing to me. They reawaken a past that I have put in the work to heal from and to forget, when really, I just need to go back to it (to the place - not the person - definitely not the person). I would love to go back to Newport and see it again but this time, on my own terms, with my own people, doing my own thing. I hate that the memory of someone could take away from me just how special that place was. It's both endearing and all the same, quite sad - that I have learned to build a life for myself in which I've revelled in the beauty of places, not people, because places can't disappoint you in those same ways that people can. A place can call you back and whisper those sweet nothings in your ear, kiss your forehead, promise to keep you safe, and really really mean it.

When I think back at the fact that it really has been four years since the summer I spent there, I feel a weight sink into my stomach. It feels like no more than a year could have passed. Simultaneously, as someone who craves connection, it's strange to think that this was the last long-term sort of relationship I was in. Everything else has been a couple months, here and there, with people I often forget ever even mattered. To be fair, that relationship probably should have never happened either. I was lonely and bored and put up with way more than I'm willing to admit. That might sting if he ever were to read it, though, I can't say I care. It's been a long time.

I've been doing better this week. I think that one of the coolest parts of my life in the last four years (on my own - mostly single although always talking to someone) has been the community I've built around me and the people I've been able to build a life with that is not at all disappointing romantically. Just today I was thinking that I might soon have to start using the calendar on my phone to set reminders of the social events, hangouts, and fun things I have going on just in my personal life. I've been so incredibly fortunate in that sense. While in some aspects I lack a romantic kind of love, my friends have filled those gaps and poured so much love into me and our friendships that I only very rarely feel alone. I love that about my life. It feels full. It's also kind of fun to have a boyfriend in every country (but alas that's besides the point LOL).

I've been thinking a lot about hopping on a plane to Boston one of these days and making the drive out to Newport. I think I need that. I think I need to be there and see it with a fresh new outlook on what it means to be there. Not at all for anyone else but myself.

I think I need to wake up in a little cottage by the ocean, have clam chowder for lunch and go for a swim at sunset after a day's worth of sun, laughs and fried calamari. I think my soul would enjoy that.

As always, thanks for coming to my Cez talk xo.

Tortured artist

Isn't it funny how whenever something isn't going our way or an ending is on the horizon, we tend to look at our life as if it isn't full, and we start taking all of these unnecessary steps to fill a void that can be minimized to a crack in our hearts? Be it whatever it may be - a heartache, a plan that didn't work out, a job that didn't fall through, we take just one of those items and accord it a world of importance as if that one thing is the reason for your whole entire life not being full. As if before that thing there was no life, and after it, you have to build life back up.

I'm guilty of that. A month ago, I got some shitty news and I used the pain of those shitty news to make another set of decisions that took my life from upside down to an even bigger mess. Two weeks later, I embarked on a journey to reach my "30 countries before turning 30" goal, and, my thought process was that my time away would give me some clarity about where I want to go next, what I want to do with my life and what my immediate concerns should be.

Spoiler alert: I have no answers for any of those things still.

I've tried all of the things that therapy taught me - to be gentle with myself, to take it one day at a time and not try to find all of the answers all at once. I frankly am rolling my eyes as I am typing this.

You know what I did instead? The day before turning 30, I drank myself into oblivion. I drank until the clock struck midnight and thereafter, and spent my birthday fighting for my life. I was receiving messages from friends and close ones wishing me well and putting words together in a bubble that were representative of how all of those people view me - as someone who is strong, bold, accomplished, intelligent, full of life, hardworking, loyal, admirable. The list went on and on.

I kept thinking to myself - what about this, about me, is admirable when I am holding on for dear life and need to run to the bathroom mid brunch because the decisions I made with my brain are not aligning with the state of my body?

That said, I kept going. I slept the day away in the 30th country and come dinner, I faced the people with whom I stayed up till dawn with earlier that day. We laughed about how absolutely destroyed I looked. They did too. At least I wasn't the one who spent the night under a bathroom sink. I guess hangovers really are that bad at 30.

I tried not to think about it. The pressure I felt to come back home with answers to the questions that my brain kept shooting at me. One question in particular kept creeping back up - what the hell are you doing Cez?

Well, if I knew the answer to that one, perhaps it would stop haunting me. And so, on the flight back, I thought it would be wise to ask the questions that would lead to yet another decision. To face reality (after I indulge in sweetness just once more). I ripped a band aid that provided me some comfort in the midst of my dealing with those aforementioned shitty news. If I've learned anything about myself in the last 30 years, it's that I am not someone who can be cool, calm, collected. And while I no longer lash out like I used to pre-therapy (we can laugh at this one), my overall being is still who I am at my core. I can't just not care. If I don't care or feel, I likely would not even want to waste my time on a particular person or thing. I'm intentional with my time and only put it towards things and people that I value.

And so, I've spent the last few days being absolutely miserable and alone. Some of it had to do with the fact that I am sick, some with the fact that I am also hormonal, and some had to do with the fact that I feel like I lived in an alternate reality for the last month that I now need to wake up from. Funnily enough, I woke up today knowing that I was inspired to write. It's always around the time that I feel like the shittiest version of myself that I am inspired to write. Call me a tortured artist. I certainly feel like one.

That said, my life has never not been full. Prior to a month ago, I was happy. I knew that no matter these shitty news and thereafter, I would be okay. Now, a month later, I still know I will be okay. Nothing really happened. I got news that I anticipated already, that I already talked about and was okay with the outcome if that was what it should be. I still have great friends, good support, a loving family and two doggos that I just wish I was closer to most days. Albeit a bit sad because of some mitigating factors, I trust that whatever fate has in store for me, will be exactly what I need.

What I will say about all of this is that perhaps we often give more power to things than we should. Just because something doesn't work out the way you want it to, doesn't mean that there is any void left to fill in your life. Just because you might feel sad, doesn't mean you'll never feel happy again. Just because someone or something hurt you, doesn't mean that the whole world crashed down. It's really never that serious and you and I should stop giving power to feelings of inferiority. I hope you take my advice cause I know I certainly should.

Give yourself grace, be gentle on yourself and as always, thanks for coming to my Cez talk xo.

I never wanted this

Every so often (usually like every few weeks), my boss sits me down and talks to me, usually over breakfast. These meetings are almost always supposed to be working breakfasts and most times, they instead turn to free therapy sessions. I cried last week - multiple times. The truth is that as much as I have no idea what I want, rejection never feels like redirection. It always feels like just that – rejection.

He keeps telling me that I’m not supposed to have it all figured out and I believe that, but this brain of mine, it has a hard time accepting that. How do you explain to someone that you are self aware of all of the things you are discussing, but that it gives you absolutely no solace or comfort? My brain is on overdrive trying to figure out something it does not have the capacity to figure out. And so, I write. I know I haven't in a while and I guess it really took a crash out to come back to this safe space. I stopped paying for my blog because I haven't written. It's been a long time since I took my thoughts to paper.

It feels poetic, this emotional torment. On one end, I want a lobotomy. On the other, I want to feel every feeling there is to feel. Is this it? I have been thinking about signs a lot. I keep seeing angel number formulations, signs that are supposed to give me some ease. You’re in the right place at the right time Cez, everything will work out as it is supposed to.

The truth is that I never really wanted this. I didn't want to go down this path in life. All the same, I really didn't know what I wanted either. I'm one of those people that loves lots of things but never loved anything enough to make it stick. I love writing but like everything, it turns into a chore, a less than expressive form when it comes with deadlines. When you have to make tweaks that someone wants you to make to something that is so authentically you. When the light in your eyes dims just a little with each and every time that something or someone tells you that all that work was just not enough. I'm afraid that this does not apply to just writing. It's everything all at once. Just - not - enough.

This isn't a cry for help. I've cried enough frankly. I've never been characterized as weak, I don't think I ever really even associated myself with that word. I've always been the big sister, the protector, the survivor, the one that everyone comes to. All the while, I have always hated feeling like someone feels bad for me or that their empathy is supposed to give me some sort of feeling of relief - that someone is thinking of me and wants me to do better, to be better. Even the thought of that makes me feel uneasy. I am not a wounded deer in the headlights.

It really is poetic. The tough girl act as some may call it, the need to be seen, but not touched. The need for validation but not feeling validated when given as much. The desire to be held but not be told that everything will be okay. I don't need a promise of a better tomorrow, I'm still thinking about today. Poetic. Perhaps a little heart-breaking.