the check-out line.

Waiting to pay for the items haphazardly thrown into the cart, I realized I had tears in my eyes when I finally blinked and saw that I'd been staring at a book of Kristen Stewart photos. Any one who had seen my face must think she makes me very unhappy, or maybe that I'm one of those teenagers that would give just anything, anything to be Kristen Stewart. I am not. Perhaps the first.

It may be hard to believe in the blogosphere, sometimes, but bad, real-life bad things, not "I dropped my absolute fav lipstick on the freakin floor and I was totally late for my nail appointment" things, happen. Hard for me to believe, anyway. This is my escape, this place. This is where I come to get lost.

But this place needs to be honest, if nothing else. I trust there to be a soft landing when I decide to carry less of the heaviness myself. Maybe naively. But this place is also an extension of my life. If I only shared stories of Alivia's past and wishful, pretty futures, it would not be a soft landing for anyone wanting to relate to something real.

I talk about depression, and anxiety here. I talk about how I feel lonely, and confused sometimes. I tell you that I miss my friends, and family. I explain that I don't feel like I'm doing enough to give back to the universe. I post inspirational quotes to pick you (and myself) up.

I talk about how in love I am, and how one day I'll write the story. Today is not that day. We have impeccable timing; the red and white hearts decorating every aisle seem lost to me, now. Out of fairness to both people involved, I'm not going to write details about the arguments, or the bad decisions, or the tears. Only that that, the reason for the story not written here, is the reason for my flakiness and bitterness in this blog and my other "social outlets."

I deal with things in my own ways. Usually with angry outbursts and rash decisions that I regret minutes later. And then embrace in the morning. Reminiscing about the simple happiness and the profound calm. Screaming at my steering wheel. Writing hurtful, though honest, letters. Staring at my toes through the hot water of the bath. Running until my legs don't belong to me. Being cold on purpose. Staring at nothing.

With anxiety, I analyze everything-- probably too much. I make lists of hopeful outcomes. In the case of my heart, this time, I just want one outcome. In the shattering glass, the pieces got confused. I just want to put the ones that belong to me back together.
I have begun to make my way through the splintered wreckage in my brain. I swiftly sweep and put the remnants where it belongs. I find myself being caught off guard--the shard I missed catching my skin. I wonder why it hurts so much, and I'm indescribably angry at the surprise pain. Then I get a band-aid. And the broom. Again.

The pieces, though, cannot possibly fit back into their earlier resting place. Slowly my heart accepts this. Slowly my heart is mending without hardening.

This is how I know I am growing up.