I Forgive Myself

I forget where my car keys are, to return phone calls and text messages as I'm looking at them, to put Mia in the car, why I'm at the store and what I'm saying even as I'm saying it. And because I can be dramatic, my tone also loses momentum and the sentence goes thud. But I forget. All the time. My mom bought me an organizer to jot down my plans and reminders that can promise redemption from guilt, but I never seem to get around to using it.

I was never like this. I was the punctual person who made lists for the sake of making lists and to keep myself organized. I was the coordinator who kept everyone in check and played mediator- I didn't  mind it because I was a control freak. So instead of organizing myself as I used to, I instead talk to myself with conviction in my thoughts. Because I'm also forgetful on a deeper and ultimately more damaging level than birthdays and phone calls. I forget that I'm doing the best I can with how I feel. I forget that I'm a lovable, capable, talented woman. I forget to forgive myself for being forgetful. For being less than perfect. For feeling emotionally lost. For being spunky, prickly, a dental hygiene perfectionist, awkward and unpolished. I forget that I'm a vessel that houses my true soul and being and that I can choose to do only the things that contribute healing for my life. Even if that means that I hermit myself for days on end in an effort to just be with my forgetful self.

The sticky side of life is quite honest. This place allows you to be yourself with zero judgment and liberty. There is a hustle in everyday life that requires us to go-go-go! It is in these moments where we just want to breathe with absolutely no pressures, that we are also prodded to slow down and see the magnificence hidden in the creaky floors we walk on. Just to be present. Listen to your inner wisdom and and act when you feel comfortable doing so. Choose meaning over "what's right".
I know that I've fully embraced being in a moment or heck, moments of time whether it's hours or an entire night of solace and barefoot walks in the backyard. The cool grass dew reminds me that I'm alive. The soft chirping of crickets running their wings together like the teeth of a comb play a soothing sound to serenade my wandering thoughts and bring me back to focus. The dark silence encourages me to free my thoughts into a wild spree of love for my brother. Sometimes, I catch myself smiling at the thought of him and the millions of memories that feel real. Because they are real and he truly happened. So what if I visit a grave where his body lies with no spirit and no heavy breathing. Afterall, the cemetery isn't his final resting place, his home is. My heart is where he infinitely lives.

I'm inspired to deal with my excruciating feelings and those of my brother's. I am not taught nor encouraged to turn my back on grief and sorrow. I call on my courage to help me manage my open self and imperfect soul. I love that I'm imperfect more than I've ever been. I love that I'm human and openly scratching at my itchy wounds. Why is it so difficult for most of us to choose to do what is best for ourselves? Why don't we practice self-kindness more and share this sentiment with our worlds? I don't have answers for myself, but I choose to try to understand myself and the circumstances I'm facing. I allow. I choose. I will try to remember to embody my brother's way of living and happiness by being honest and forgiving myself for living.