Let letting go go

When I was applying to colleges, my application essay was about how I wanted to be like Gregory House. I wanted to know everything, ask all the questions, find all the answers. I even wrote about how I wouldn't stop bothering my friend when he changed his first name from the shorthand version to the full version on Facebook. This necessity to know has long been prevalent - I also recall my AP Psych class and how I wrote down "not knowing" as one of my biggest fears. That could be as small as not knowing the answer to a question on an exam, as medium as not knowing why someone does the things they do (or why someone cares about the things someone else does), or as large as not knowing what happens to us after we die.

I've been proportionately afraid of those things over the course of the past 10+ years, but I'm finally starting to learn to let go. To acknowledge my fear, to acknowledge the uncertainty of a situation, and to let it go, and to come back to my breath and the present moment. It doesn't matter as much to me anymore why people do the things they do, or why people care about the things other people do. (Sometimes it still gets to me, though - nobody's perfect.) It still cares the hell out of me to not know what happens to us after we die, and to conceive of inconceivability, but that's always a passing fear. It leaves as easily as it arrives.

I'm still working on letting go of letting go, and the idea that telling people I'm letting something go still counts for as much. It doesn't. It still counts, sure, but not as much as it would if I simply let go of letting go. I suppose this is the higher-level state of consciousness that comes with years of practice of meditation (I still have a ways to go). In the meantime, I'll continue to be mindful of my reactions and turning them into responses. I'll be mindful of when I do let something go, and I'll be mindful of when I let something sit with me for longer than I want it to. I'll be mindful of letting go of letting go, acknowledging that, and coming back to the breath.

That's all we know we have.

Dear everyone I ever really knew

Thank you for helping me get here. For helping me become the person I am now, and for allowing me the space to become the person I needed to be. Yes, it's unfortunate that I couldn't get here with you still by my side, and sure, there were instances in which I needed to create that space, but I am who I am and you were a big part of that. You still are, whether or not we talk anymore. Rarely do I turn down an opportunity to reflect on what we had, what it meant to me, and, after I came out the other side, how it helped me become a more true version of myself. It doesn't matter if our time lasted one night, one month, or one quarter of a decade. Everything that's ever happened to me has gotten me to this point, including you, and I don't want to (nor will I) shy away from acknowledging that truth. It's important for me to internalize that we won't have anything close to what we did, if anything at all - that's been a struggle for me to come to terms with in some instances - but as I once convinced myself, it's possible to love what you had with someone without loving that person anymore. So thank you for what we had, and thank you for being important to me even without what we had. I wouldn't give it back, because then I wouldn't be me.