I will never forget being on the beautiful beaches of northeastern Cape Cod during that memorable summertime of 2002.
I was a frisky teenage girlfriend kitten expending the summer with our friend Suzie in Provincetown, MA. It was sunset, and “were in” peering out into the wild, tempestuous ocean, the midnight-blue ripples probing our 16 -year-old eyes.
We were discussing our compulsion to dive right into those dangerous night oceans. We prayed detecting the haste of the freeze cold Atlantic Ocean, the hotshot of it cutting through our hearts and exploding through our chests.
“That’s dangerous , ” Suzie’s mummy, Marie( whom I dearly enjoyed) reminded, wide-eyed and visibly concerned by our reckless desire.
“Live fast, expire reasonably, ” I sweetly answered, gazing excitedly out into the ocean. It was a tired clich, but I didn’t maintenance. I was a teenager wearing plaid captivity throbs to the beach. What the f* ck did I have to worry about?
The truth of the matter wasI had seen that quote stitched on to a vegan skin purse at my favorite punk rock browse, Trash And Vaudeville on St. Mark’s place in soul of the East Village. I had entreat my mother for that billfold, but she securely declined.
She had already bought me the plaid bondage pants. Enough was enough.
I eventually developed out of the bondage throbs, but every time I experienced those four clichd paroles scrawled in all the regions of the inauthentic T-shirts at Hot Topic( every real punk rock kid’s worst nightmare ), they put with me.
For better or worse, I’ve ever sort of lived by the“live rapidly, die pretty” adage. I’m an honorary postgraduate from the Institution of Self Destructive Behavior( with a minor in “projecting fantasies” ).
I’ve taken the unidentified pill at the working party exactly to recognize what would happen. I purposefully missed a $1,000 plane journey dwelling just so I could spend one more daytime with temporary lover. I’ve hop-skip into autoes with beings I didn’t know because I was imploring escapade, all while being fully aware that this risk could have unsurvivable consequences.
But then, I got older, and sh* t started to come with consequences.
I changed wearisome of operating by the seat of my hem. Plus, experimenting with pharmaceuticals loses its charm really fast after you lose your best friend to an overdose and witness a slew of the most beautiful people on the planet grown full-blast drug addict, failing everything that ever mattered to them.
So, only a few years ago I made a option: I was going to therapy in hopes of memorizing this “balancing” business.
And, inferno yeah, through hard work, I’ve leveled out a lot: I haven’t touched anti-retroviral drugs( albeit one or two slip-ups, but whos weighing ?) in at the least five years old. I would never get in a stranger’s car( I learned that one the hard way ). I don’t need to play Russian roulette with “peoples lives” in order to appear alive .
I want to be the healthiest version of myself.
But sometimes I feel like being fully seen “healthy” in the therapeutic macrocosm includes some pretty intense sacrifices I’m not so sure I’m quite ready tomake.
I want to want an even-keeled relationship, but I crave fiery passion.
I want to have my patty and eat it more. In point, I want to devour the f* cking patty, daily, without putting on those five pesky, inescapable pounds.
The quantities claim that the fiery romances, the ones that are loaded with red-hot copulation, the ones that propel your mettle up to the tippy pinnacle of an incessant sky, are always the ones that burn out fast.
Highs so enthralling ever come with accident. What comes up must come down.
So I did it. I attempted the “healthy” relationship. I dated a person who has I inherently knew was “good” for me. Someone offset, who had spent years “working” on herself and was in a health, positive place.
I wholly enjoyed myself, but I never felt that sparkly ardour. I was on an even keel the entire duration, and I was digested as sh* t.
Is it possible to have both? Can you have a fiery, passionate, fiction that’s also healthy and coherent? I don’t know, but it doesn’t review so good, based on my personal experiences.
So when faced with the choice of fiery feeling over a health relation, what are you supposed to choose?
My mother, my therapist and my brother would tell me to keep it healthy and consistent. But is that enough to satiate the emptines pains perpetually tormenting me, the ebullient yearn that craves electricity?
If the main dish is mind-blowing, is it okay if it comes with a area tell of tendernes?
I want to want tospend anight in, but I crave the party.
It’s not even so much the booze. Yes, it’s merriment to get a little wild, have one too many glass of champagne, but partying is about more than precisely the alcohol buzz.
It’s the social interaction. It’s the magnetic attract of the nighttime. It’s the stars in the mother-f* cking sky.
I know occasion alone at home, decompressing, is oh-so-good for me. I’m an intense person, and I expect quiet is high time to unroll and re-center.
But every time I stay in, I’m filled with the underlying feeling of missing out. Like there is a nature of possibilities covering in all the regions of the nightlife of Manhattan, and I’m wasting the bloom of my youth on the couch watching adocumentary on Netflix.
I feel better when I stay in and take time for myself. When I wake up hangover-free and go to work well-rested, clear as a bell. But I’m also fueled by meat, dancing, dining and late-night conversation too.
Where is the balance? Does it prevail, for real?
I want to want emotional stability, but I implore the emotional roller coaster.
I’m clearly not preaching a reckless, careless life. Nonetheless, I just don’t know if I want to sacrifice the epic emotional high-priceds and pressing emotional lows in order to achieve the “perfect balance.” Aren’t spectacular ups and downs precisely the antithesis of “stability? ” How can you have “balance” without “stability? ”
On the other hand, I’m sick of being warped with anxiety. I’m exhausted of battling the uphill ascent of hollow. But the thought of living on a everlasting mood-stabilizer-induced life doesn’t excite me.
Yes, the suffering suffers, but the very best suffers are so good. I’m sick of life being an emotional roller coaster, hitherto I’m not quite sure how to hop off.
I want to want to be health, but I crave LIVING.
I want to be healthy, but I’m afraid of what I will lose if I’m wholly poised, I told my healer on the phone last Thursday. It’s the emotionally exploded events that retain me inspired. Even if it means falling hard-boiled. I don’t make I would be happy being balanced.
“Well, I think that’s lamentable, Zara, ” my therapist responded.
I withdrew hard. I was talking to her whilst smacking in the middle of Gramercy Park, where severalrandom photo shoots were taking place all around me.Skinny patterns smoking cigarettes posedagainst the background of aslate gray sky.
Click. Flash. Flick . I watched the examples, their ethereal glamour juxtaposed against the raw grime of Manhattan, my gorgeously f* cked up metropolitan, the place in which I was seen, andwondered : Is my therapist right? Is it really sad ?
What if my healthy is just different than herhealthy? What if my health is starting on wild dangers, falling head first into the sidewalk, tolerating through heartache and pushing everything there is a little too far? What if that’s my version equilibrium?
We all have our own versions of what delight is, right? I’m not saying let’s all recklessly consume medicines or jump into vehicles with strangers. But, f* ck , not everybody finds “balanced” when everything is so bleakly moderate. And isn’t this kind of okay?
I “d rather” be alive, teeming with exhilaration, agony, passion, heartbreak and artwork than be seen “healthy” by therapeutic standards.
Because after all, kittens, there is more than merely one practice to define a “healthy” lifestyle.