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(Blog) Changes Coming!

It is with great nostalgia and excitement that I write my last weekly blog post today.

But never fear, I am not going anywhere! (Technically…)

This upcoming year I will be working on a larger writing project, summarizing and expounding upon much of what I have written within this blog and spoken about on My Channel .

My intention will be to publish this work and have a tangible piece of content to offer the world before I die.

As I may have mentioned before, people who have experienced life- threatening trauma often have a shortened view of their life expectancy, and I am no different. Though never intending to end my own life, I have honestly lived most of my life believing that I will pass onto the other side before I have completed what I need to, and before I have become who I am meant to be.

I’m happy to say that I have definitely become someone I am proud of, and am working each day to be able to see a future for myself past 35. To believe that I will make it, and that no external darkness will catch up and smite me down before then.

But just in case, and just to be sure, and not just for others’ benefit, I want to publish a book. To finally hone down and scream out my frustrations and findings within pages that can serve others the insight that would have saved me many years of isolation in my own head. To feel justice in the action of calling out the behavior of others and myself; to drip empathy into empty wounds. To finally feel at peace knowing that my story will not remain unheard.

And to allow others the space and dignity to see themselves in all the shades of gray of their human condition. To underline my reactions and trace them back to the roots of choice- and how often there wasn’t one. To remind others that at the end of the day we are all bags of flesh and feelings fumbling around trying to feel as self-righteous and vindicated as possible.

And to allow fellow survivors to know that they are not alone. That there is no black and white and wrong and right in reaction to actions that have been done upon you. That you are neither villain nor victim nor entirely lost to fate’s hand. That there is beauty in the undertaking of pain, and that we will never be saints of our situations. And that that’s okay. That’s all okay. We do not need to be right or white. We don’t need to apologize to anyone outside of ourselves. We don’t need to be anyone other than the person breathing through our lungs and nose right now, as we are.

And I promise to never lose my lewd and mischievous tone, my long-winded streams of thought, or my blunt interpretations. I promise to put as much heart and thought and energy and effort into this project as I have put into this written blog, here, weekly. And I promise that it will be worth it all in the end, to staunch the flows of my creative energy, channeling them intentionally into my ultimate mission. To save my energy and use it accordingly, and to continue doing The Work with myself as much as with you all.


What you can expect here on my blog going forward is occasional updates and ramblings about life. Much the same as they have been so far- just with less frequency. I cannot give promises of consistency nor quality, as I will be trying my best to take care of myself as I undertake this work that will most likely be very triggering and exhausting.

I knew at the beginning of last year that the beginning of this year would hold this journey for me, and this weekly blog exercise has worked wonders for my writing, introspection, and discipline. All developments that I look forward to using in my work to come!

Many many thanks and love to all who have stayed tuned throughout this year of weekly blog posts. Your support, attention, validation, and acceptance has meant the world and more.

And as always; May you be Well, May you be Happy, May you be Free from Suffering ❤

Tough Skin, Tough Sinew

I have once again started another job this week, and have once again found myself in a situation where some part of my being is over-utilized past it’s ability.

This time, it’s my physicality.

Though I knew this job would be intensely laborious, I pressed onward into it with the conviction that I would eventually build satisfactory muscle to tough through the heat, the lifting, the pushing, and the moving.

I have been thrown into the deep end of hard manual labor, with hardly a moment for my body to acclimate, grow, or recover. (And have been made to feel weak and a waste of wage in the meantime for it.)

I get it. I understand. A business is a business and money makes it go round.

I knew what was expected of me and have fallen short. I have tried all week to “mind-over-matter” the situation and force my body to complete tasks that are too difficult, heavy, and hot for my physical self to bear. And I have both literally and figuratively collapsed from the literal and figurative pressure.

I have been trying to analyze why this downfall is hitting me so hard in the emotional sphere, when it only has to visibly do with my physical world and contact-

But I know better than to assume the two can ever be separated from the other. In both action and reaction, my mind has always tried to overpower and overwork my body past it’s capabilities and limitations.

The new additional variable to this dynamic is a job that asks my mind to succeed in these overthrows of my strength. A job that says, “do not hurt yourself” and then, “I need you to be able to do more.”

And the ableist sentiments I have always observed from the outside of manual labor have now surfaced with a personal sprig of shame. I find myself lamenting over my shortcomings of physical strength and ability. Embarrassed at my weakness of bone and blood that cannot keep up with the ambition of my work ethic.

I find my mind traveling back to The Accident with fresh annoyance and blame; wishing that I had recovered quicker, and blaming myself for not having had the resolve to hit the gym sooner or more vigorously.

I think back to when I had the body that I could use now, that would help me now, and I feel regret and anger.

But then I pull back, and I recognize the mental strength in even being able to process and analyze these emotions to begin with. I look back at past physical obstacles and how I was incapable of seeing the parallels in my mental and physical health. I observe others around me who berate themselves in the same way, but are unable to find the roots of their rotting sense of worth.

And I am grateful that for me, growing muscle will never be as painful as growing a sense of self-awareness. And at least that work is already done.

It’s time to train the body for (financial) survival. The mind is already there.

May you be well, May you be happy, May you be free from suffering

End of Intermission

If I could label the past year with one word, I would call it an intermission at best and a disruption at worst.

The ways that I’ve spent my time and efforts has been wildly different than before, and much less professionally fulfilling than I wish for my future. I have found respite, but hardly relaxation, as I have known this year to be a small fraction of time within a small fraction of a town utilizing a small fraction of my potential- even before it began.

And so, in the name of positivity, I’d call it an intermission to my mission. I will not miss it like a crucial part in the plot of my path, but I will accept the necessity of a break in my plot.

During this time in a strange whitewashed land I have learned how to defend myself with both earnest and ease. I have learned that I can find allies within enemy lines, and that I can learn the most from those I fear the most. That I can be a better friend than ever before, and that critiquing my actions and reactions is just as necessary as critiquing the actions and reactions of others.

I witnessed the worst internal winter of my life during the most externally windy winter of my life. I believed that I would never find friends who made me feel at home where I was…

And I was right. I never found friends who made me feel like I was at home in my place of intermission.

But I did find friends who helped me feel at home within myself. Within my identity, sexuality, and privileged marginalized sect. I found friends and foes who helped me hone in my passions for righteousness and visibility. I found confidence in taking up as much space possible, and knowing when to center others.

I learned how to hold space and pass along the generosity of acceptance. I learned how to allow vulnerability and witness healing, while slowly breaking down my own walls in allowing the same from others.

I found my own silver lining in the center fold of my plot twist, and I found it accidentally. Otherwise, I would have never sought it.

I would have never thought I deserved, (much less had earned,) a moment to get up, stretch my legs, and move my mind’s eye away from the main production. I would not have had a chance to refocus anew on the mission at hand with a refreshed gaze.

And now that I have had it- suffered and savored it- I can move on from it.

Back to the mission, back to the plot.

And find a way to accept that the intermission is just as necessary and useful as the production itself. That all works of creation deserve a moment to step away, in order to step back into themselves with renewed energy and wonder.

I hope to find energy and wonder, synchronicity and peace, after this intermission.

And I already feel it soaking in. It is luxurious, and much deserved.

I just have to keep reminding myself of that.

May you be well, May you be happy, May you be free from suffering

The Big Chop (and Change)

I finally fucking did it, ya’ll.

I cut all 20-inches of hair off my head – And I got my septum pierced.

Both of which I’ve been wanting to do for years. 

I’ve saved reference photos, made folders, made plans, and told folx about them; but never have I acted past these motions.

Perhaps I just finally got tired of living with a wig on my head- feeling as if I was wearing a false identity that everyone around me loved and adored. A soft, luscious lie. At a length that drove more eyes and compliments and validations toward me. At a thickness that encouraged stereotypes of my Latinidad and beauty.

A dead cell vehicle of protection for my insecurities.

I set up a fundraiser in support of my local therapy center that I have been going to for treatment- I raised almost $300 for their free services that they provide to people like me. People who have experienced sexual and/or domestic violence. People who can’t afford help in the ways that they need it. And I included a promise to shave my head once I finished the fundraiser, on my birthday…

But, in typical Chelsea fashion, I became impatient to wait for my birthday, (Dec. 9th,) and shaved all my hair off this week.

I couldn’t wait any longer, and wanted to feel the cold air on my scalp. I wanted to be acclimated to the new hair cut before my birthday, before a quarter of a century was marked in my age.

I thought it would take me a long time to get used to the paleness of my skin long covered by my dark, thick hair. I thought I would feel awkward, upset, or anxious at first.

But I felt none of the above; I felt relieved, and strikingly more “normal,” than before. And I still feel this relief and normalcy settling into me, several days later.

This is the appearance that validates who I am; more than those who threw compliments at my hair. This is the change I needed in order to feel myself.

And the septum piercing is the cherry on top.

I will be posting a video next Tuesday of this transformation, and cannot wait to share it with you all. Please stay tuned, and remember that you can support me and my work by becoming a Patron at Patreon.com/chelseatea.

Much love and grace to you all.

May you be well, May you be happy, May you be free from suffering

Get off my (lack of) back (fat)

As someone relatively petite, I always felt that I had zero room to complain about judgements people threw on my physicality. I felt the competition to prove my petiteness to only be applicable where it was most desirable, (my waist, my arms, my ankles) and to dually improve the fat in areas where I was ethnically expected to have them, (my ass, my chest, my thighs.)

For most of my life I have lived with a disrespectful and disappointed view of my body. I told myself that I was too flat where it mattered and too soft where it didn’t. I’d constantly look in the mirror and eyeball with disdain the consistent measurements of my hips and waist, attempting to force them into an hourglass shape because dammit what Latinx woman who gets laid looks like this?.

All the while knowing that if I voiced any of these criticisms to others, I would be met with belittlement as being already “cute enough,” or met with validation from male acquaintances who suggested this or that exercise or diet to make me more suitable for their gaze.

I dealt with it all while hearing family members boast about their expanding sizes equating to womanhood, happiness, and sex appeal. I heard them equate manhood with someone who prefers a woman of size that ran against the status quo. I heard them shame the flat-assed, flat chested girls that looked like me as childish, with vindictive jealous threats to the models on view in any mall window. I learned that I could not complain and that I would never attain the shape I wanted most. I also learned that I could not share this thought either, as diet culture and brawny folx would tell me that genetics didn’t dictate shape and that with just the right level of food restriction, strict workout regimes, and invested time, I could look just how I wanted.

All the while, I grew more and more resentment not just toward myself, but toward these others who forced their views, preferences, and lifestyles on me. And so I adopted what I could and left out what I couldn’t. I went through waves of self harming in both violent and subtle forms, hating the vessel that I was lent for this life.

All while hearing the general culture praise such subtler forms of self-harming like restriction and self-regulation in the realms of extreme diet and exercise. All while hearing praise for dedication and determination and shame for anyone content with who they already were. They deemed this self-love and contentedness ‘lazy’ ‘unhealthy’ and ‘not ambitious.’

Once I did have a (mentally) healthy relationship with food and exercise, and was utilizing both for the sake of my holistic stability; my progress was robbed from me through the car accident, sending my body back into survival, starvation, weakness, and rage.

Trying to regain that sense of self-love and love for activities that release my endorphins has been one of the hardest parts of this journey. And it’s one I’m still taking, now with the additional pressure of idealized queer representation/flagging, and navigating that as someone with the privilege of already being in the physique of a stereotypically “androgynous” person. Navigating not only a male gaze but an almost equally demeaning and labeling and boxing queer gaze that wishes me to be easily definable and readable through both size and style and body language.

It’s a fucking task and a fucking journey. And coupled with physical/sexual trauma, it is one that never ends. Facing the diet culture of the U.S. while facing your own inner turmoil and shame is a double whammy that most of us will struggle with longer than we would be proud to admit.

But we are out here, making our way day by day through a society that passes anxiety onto us over every.single.bite. and every.single.move.

And we out here looking damn good doing it because we are all magical fucking bags of flesh, regardless of our shapes or sizes. So get off our (varying amounts of) back (fat.)

May you be well, May you be happy, May you be free from suffering

Blest while Strest

Happy colonizer day, ya’ll.

While I don’t prescribe to the typical excitement and frivolity of today as a marker of historical genocide, I do enjoy a good reflection on the blessings of my life during this time with the fam. So here it is:

I have a spiritual understanding of my life as a passing of time where I am living under the Karmic consequences of a past life. As such, I view my blessings as the good Karma I was gifted in this life, sustaining me through the trials of Bad Karma still touching my lifespan with turmoil.

The primary “good” Karmic embodiment in my life is my family, who have taught me love and compassion from a young age as the foundation of any human interaction. Though many times they could have chosen to reject or abandon me under circumstances I have put them through, they have remained supportive and by my side for all of my (almost) 25 years of consciousness.

It is thanks to them that I learned self-love and forgiveness. (Although those are still hard lessons for me to apply against the self-hate and punishment I have adopted through trauma- informed shame.) It is thanks to them that I learned all humans deserve basic rights, and to have their needs fulfilled. (Although these lessons were at times shadowed by religious conservatism and bias.)

And it is thanks to them that today, and for the next few years, I will have a place to rest, recover, and lay my head in safety.

I recognize my family unit as an extreme privilege that many do not share, and that those even most close to me outside of my family savor and admire my parents’ unwavering union and support for those not within our bloodline. Through them I learned that family extends past genetics- most especially onto those who most need that warmth and stability. That differences and indifferences are no match for kindness and kinship. That I have the freedom and right to choose my family, and add yet more members to it whenever I wish.

My family has engrained in me the affirmative coping skills that I have relied on heavily for the past years gone by. And even when I was in the depths of self-destruction, they were still there. Proving again and again that I deserve good things, good love, and a good life.

And I’m hella thankful for that, and them.

May you be well, May you be happy, May you be free from suffering.

Resentful Relaxation, Pt. 2

This journal entry was written on November 10th, 2017- a month after my car accident and is a secondary part to Resentful Relaxation, Part 1

Writing out these musings seems like a dark path of meandering distrust to eyes that haven’t related to this train of thought before, but to those who have, it makes more sense than the ego would allow.

And although I can’t change everything in my life, I can choose to change my ego.

That is within my control. It is not in control of me.

So that is what I will focus on, as a way to fight the irony and the disrespect I’ve thrown at myself.

My learned and evolved ego, that I have fixed up and glorified, has been the real pain in my life – not the actual tragedies.

The ego is what has refused to let me heal. It tells me to not only keep going and ignore the body and soul’s cry for rest, but to push them harder and tell them to put their chin up.

The ego is what has shamed me for my sadness. When my heart longed for comfort or longed for a home, it told them that comfort and the concept of home is for weaklings, and that we had not yet earned the privilege.

The ego has led me into a list of comparisons with multiple people of different dimensions in my world. And told me that in order to survive, I had to not only do better than all of them, in whatever way that they were pulling me, but to live the dreams they have for me.

And this is the part that has sent me into the most distress.

How is one supposed to live 50 different types of lives at once?

How is one supposed to follow dreams that were instilled in them by others?

These dreams in particular are tricky, as they are either planted by those who are incapable or unwilling to pursue them, and wish you to do the work so that they see their dreams lived out, or they are genuinely given by those who generously wish you well, or they are poked into your side by those who are on that path, and wish for a comrade.

The guilt that all three of these types of planting are not caused by these people. They do not insist that I have the potential to accomplish great things because they wish me any ill will.

The guilt that I feel when I turn my back on these dreams is from the ego.

The ego screams at me that by turning my back on these dreams that are not mine, I am turning my back on these people.

I am letting down those who are incapable of succeeding, I am letting down those who want the best for me, and I am letting down those who hoped I would join their ranks.

But those who believe themselves incapable need to know that they themselves should embody something, if they want it that bad, and not force it on another to carry.

Those who want my full potential to be realized are not me, and will be happy for me regardless of what I choose, as long as I am ultimately happy.

And those who want me to join their ranks need to know that not everyone wants and strives for the same dream as them.

I need to learn to let these parts go, and to let the ego go.

It has served its purpose in pulling me out of danger for years, and cheering me on to succeed.

But maybe the ego is not the enemy at all either. Maybe, as I have been told, I am a good person, not a bad person. And that carries into all aspects of me- even the ego.

I said that the ego was learned. And it learned what it had to to survive. It played its part, and I am grateful to it. But now I am out of danger, and it needs to understand that.

My ego needs to understand that there is no need to attack when I am not under attack.

And I think, honestly, that my ego is tired. It is burned out. But it doesn’t know how to rest, how to retire.

I have to teach it, retrain it, and lead it to a seat in my mind to play a secondary role in my life, and not be the primary row of mental soldiers that comes out first and foremost to any occasion.

It has been resentful to rest because it knows I need it, but doesn’t think I deserve it.

It’s time for rest. It’s time to rewire, reteach, and recoup my body and mind so that it is no longer at war with itself. I deserve to love and care for myself.

And that means that I need to retire my ego, and rest peacefully, in whatever way I can, in the faith and trust that I will be exactly who and how I am, regardless of trauma.


May you be well, May you be happy, May you be free from suffering

Resentful Relaxation, Part 1

This journal entry was written on November 10th, 2017- a month after my car accident.
As I relax and lounge about today without guilt attached to my pleasure, I remember that I wasn’t always so kind to myself. And that it is still very difficult for me to allow myself rest without feeling burdened by my own “weakness.” Without shaming myself for being a human being with physical and mental needs. These were, and sometimes still are, my thoughts.

I find often that I resent relaxation.

It feels like I haven’t earned it, don’t deserve it.

Where does this come from?

From the deep recesses of my resentment for self. I feel like I need to push myself, consistently and almost as if I am delivering a consequence to myself that I have long developed from my mediocre- to- deadly karmic debate within my morals.

If I have been battling karma, why have I found it to be an enemy? There have been many blessings thrown my way and I have been equally resentful to accept them.

I have been addicted to the struggle with a love for danger more deadly than the danger itself.

I fun fast and hard toward it, as if not reaching it would be not deserving to stay on the runway toward it, and certainly not allowing myself to walk back home and lay down in exhaustion.

I have been obsessed with the perspectives of outsiders who have glorified my ambition and daring personality, refusing to accept the average, and screaming for attention from those that have delivered my ego a pedestal.

But the truth is, I’m afraid of heights, and I have weak ankles.

But do I accept this truth? Never.

I climb higher and tread harder than ever when I sense these weaknesses hindering me. But maybe they’re not weaknesses. Maybe they are just characteristics that have arisen simply because I am human. Characteristics that don’t deserve to be judged and shamed as unadmirable and undesirable, simply because they don’t afford me the pedestal.

I don’t need anymore ego boosts.

My accident triggered my issues and made me more convinced that I had to beat them all at once and bat them all out of the way with one fell swoop.

But I was too tired. Too tired and too humbled.

The amount of energy this kind of task would have required would have only been possible with the ego I previously found to be “me”, “myself”.

But that ego refused to acknowledge the weaknesses, as it called them. It refused to acknowledge whole parts of personality and characteristics that it found undesirable.

Focusing on survival does that to people.

I haven’t been through a literal, bomb-flinging war. But I feel traits of PTSD that I hear about on shows, that I see in movies, and that I read in psychology. I try not to invest myself so much in my research and my observations personally. But there’s a reason I’m drawn to them. There’s a reason I’ve been seeking them out and hoping to un-dig some nugget of treasure, get a taste of some insight. My research and observations are very personal.

My trauma is very personal, and I feel it writhing under the tendons that tighten when I’m fearful. I feel it sinking in my chest when I am drowning in a memory. I feel it pulsing in my temples and tensing in my back.

And my mind has wrought an awful lot of pain upon my body.

People can tell me that things are “accidents” and to not “read too much into them.” But from my personal experiences that’s not the correct way to handle my incidents of fate.

I have done the tried and not-so-true routine of brushing off massive attacks of terror and pain that strike from real life onto my spirit. I’ve ignored many a sign from God/the Universe and seen where it’s gotten me.

It’s gotten me into deeper and deeper trouble as I have tried to rationalize and plan it away into my subconscious of disregard. You see, there is no true method of moderation in my brain yet.

It is constantly a push and pull of all-or-nothing attitudes.

And although I have recently began to invest in this skill of not going 0 to 100 or 100 to 0, I’ve realized it is spiritually unwise to take the universe shaking me upside down as simply an incident, and walking through the fire anyway.

I’ve danced with god and the devil before, and not been able to decipher between the two.

I’ve felt surrounded by evil energy that attempted to infiltrate my entire being, and talked back to it as if I had more weight to throw than 135 pounds.

And I have been very, very angry at the fact that my 135 pounds could not move the wall of illness. I have been very, very angry at myself for throwing the very body that is already ridiculed with pain, at an object of pain.

It makes no sense. No logical sense. To try solving pain with pain.

But it seems logical in a mind that has learned to distrust itself.

Sometimes it seems like all catastrophes have somehow been crafted against a force only because that force deserves to be destroyed.

Ironically, I have felt myself to be both the catastrophe and the force.


May you be well, May you be happy, May you be free from suffering

The Giver, and Grief

I am currently at the American Art Therapy Association conference in Miami, spending a week talking and thinking about trauma and art.

And I’m fucking pumped about it. (Even though it’s already highly exhausting.)

Eight hours of my day today were dedicated to a workshop on Complicated Grief, Complex Trauma, and Collage. And although I am very aware of Complex Trauma, it’s interconnection with complicated grief peaked my interest.

I was never entirely fond of Collage as an artform before, and felt that it’s reliance on found imagery took away from the originality of the creation. Today I learned that it’s reliance on found imagery actually provides boundaries necessary for some of those who experience trauma to maintain while working through their grief and triggers.

So I made a collage book… and shit! It felt good!

I had forgotten about my love for visual storytelling outside of video and written word. I had forgotten about all the other times I had intended to collage “for fun” and “relaxation.” And I had forgotten how I never made time for it after that.

I was also told today that I “seem like a giver.”

And my reaction definitely wasn’t complete elation at first- on the contrary, it was nearly complete terror and almost defensiveness.

Why? Because I’ve always associated giving with weakness, with vulnerability. With things I truly fear.

But today I worked through those fears in conversation to realize another underlying hesitancy in me against accepting this title of “giver.” I remembered that I’ve always been called selfish, and stingy. I remembered all the times that people called me rude and mean and only out to “get mine,” regardless of whoever I had to knock down and out of my way.

And I told all those fears to fuck off and remember who they really are- boundaries.

Cause I am a giver.

And I’m also selfish with myself.

I have to be, otherwise I would give until my heart gave out and I ended up empty-handed and compassion-fatigued.

Which I still do sometimes.

And am trying to avoid doing now-

So I’m signing off this super short blog post this week early. I gotta retain these energy juices and keep myself in check. By next week I’ll be in yet another city and probably processing yet another realization, so for now…

I’ll ya’ll next week.

May you be well, May you be happy, May you be free from suffering

Intermission

I’ve been feeling a whole lot more at peace in acknowledging my time here as an unintentional intermission in my life.


I usually move living locations with some sense of bitterness- at either having to leave a place I love, or running from a place I hate.

For once, I am feeling neither.

Instead, I have been feeling quietly nostalgic and grateful.

In love with my home and my friends who I have grown to love and trust. Sad at leaving them, but finally hopeful that I can one day have this sense of Home in the future within an even better context. Which is no small feat for someone who constantly believes that they will die at a young age.

I’ve been processing my sense of scarcity and my fear of misread signs/synchronicities. I’ve been acknowledging my associated pain with moving my life across the country for the 5th time. Reflecting on past moves that took place much too rapidly to be remembered as anything more or less than an additional wound to my sense of stability.

I’ve been sitting with these feelings while sitting in my favorite parts of my home.

And I’ve been getting a lot closer to my friends and loved ones. Spending more quality time with them than before, and remaining present. I wish to feel numb and dumb about it- to retract and excuse myself from the bonds that I have depended on so heavily for half of this year. But I don’t. I don’t feel a damn shred of regret over my ties and connections. In fact, I feel hella grateful to have met people that supported me and taught me how to be a better friend. A more aware ally, a more vocal participant to the movement, a more empathetic listener, and a more giving person in general.

I’ve developed a lot of solid relationships with people here, and have found myself processing the eventual move in ways very unfamiliar to me. Like becoming more sentimental and focused on the few positive situations I have experienced during my time here. I have been acknowledging what I love in my living situation and what I could stand to gain in my next one. And miraculously finding hope again in what could be “meant to be” for me.

I would normally read these positive experiences and new processing patterns as a sign that I need to stay- but I’ve found the power in reframing that mentality. Seeing these positive processes not as signs to stagnate, but a quiet allowance of my exit without the all-too familiar sensations of disconnect and abandonment.

I’m learning to read between the lines of my discontentment and connections with others. I’m learning to accept the lessons of patience thrown my way. I’m learning to not only associate change with wounds and a quick rip from all grounding.

I’m finally learning to move on without resentment or regret, and it feels fucking magnificent.

Who knew that closure could feel this peaceful?

May you be well, May you be happy, May you be free from suffering.