smudge.

  There is a hole in my soul. 

  Maybe not so much a hole as it is a smudge. And the more I scrub at it to get rid of it, the larger it gets. That pesky black smudge keeps getting larger and larger until I can’t remember the parts of me it’s even covering.

  Maybe I’m down there. The real me. The one that is funny and sassy and likes to have a good time. 

  The me that can stay up until all hours of the night talking and laughing. 

  The me that can trust. 

  The me that feels excited about the smallest things in life. 

  The me that doesn’t feel the need to sleep constantly so I can ignore my loneliness. 

  The me that feels passion. 

  The me that wants to write anything and everything.

  It's been 5 years since I’ve felt like myself.

  Not that you were the integral thing that made me feel more like myself and without you it’s suddenly gone.

  No. There was something within me that existed before you and somehow now that you’re gone, it’s disappeared too. Like you spilled the ink that made the smudge and covered that part of myself.

  I can already hear people’s thoughts if they read this. Here she goes, talking about him again. Won’t she ever stop and get over it? 

  I am over you. For the record.

  But this isn’t about you. I don’t hate you. But I hate the mess that you’ve left behind.

  The only time lately where I truly feel almost like myself again is the moments when I’m alone in my car and I’m blasting some of my favorite bands, bands I listened to before you. And I’m shouting along to the lyrics and I feel…alive.

  We all joke about how we’re dead inside. It’s my personal favorite type of humor.

  What if it’s true?

  What if the smudge is not a smudge and the mess is not a mess. What if it’s pieces of me withering away and dying, never to come back to life again?

  What if I’m actually dead inside, never to come back to life again? Never able to have my quick witted humor come through again? Never able to trust again? Never able to feel truly alive again?

  Chelsea—dead at 25. Maybe earlier, actually.

  Chelsea—dead at 21, but didn’t realize it until 25.

  Here are my wishes, in case you were curious. I want to be turned into a tree, no plaque, no memento. And at my burial (planting?) I want “Blackbird” by the Beatles to play. Oh, and I want an open bar. And for everyone to bring their dogs to visit my tree so they can pee on it.

  But most of all, I want it to be a happy occasion. I want to be a happy little tree (thanks Bob Ross).

  Funny how I can discuss the biggest commitment of the afterlife, but in real everyday life, I have trouble committing to anything.

  And I have you to blame for a lot of this. It was a huge whirlwind of a relationship, of promises of commitment and belief that we could beat the odds. I planned a whole life at 20 years old, figured out a career and a life path that would work for us.

  And when it was over, I was 3 weeks away from graduation and never more clueless about what I wanted in my life. You dropped the first blot of ink.

  With time, I decided I wanted a life for myself. I would be independent. I would make my own plans, and do my own things and never wait around for a man or let one change anything that I wanted to do. I was going to life every day for the rest of my life for myself, and myself alone. 

  Now if I only knew who myself was.

  I scrub and scrub and scrub at that smudge on my soul and it never gets smaller.

  I try to find myself in any way that I can. Writing doesn’t appeal to me anymore—you have to have some form of passion within your soul for that. But I can’t see my soul. 

  I tried to find myself in booze, but instead found a lot of bad decisions that wrecked more havoc on my soul.

  I tried to find myself in work, but instead found that I can’t seem to be truly happy no matter where I am. No matter how hard I work, how high I climb, it never seems enough.

  I tried to maintain strong friendships, which have gotten me through more than anything. My true friendships have brought me up, have given me glimpses at my true self, make me remember who I’ve always been.

  But friendships only go so far. Friendships can’t be with you at 2am when you can’t sleep and can only stare at the ceiling, wondering how you got yourself here.

  I’ve moved on from you. I’ve gotten hurt, not by my own design. Things outside of anyone’s control have kept me apart from some true connections. Failure after failure has gotten me questioning if maybe I’m meant to be alone.

  And the smudge grows larger.

  At this point, I sabotage anyone that tries to get close to me.

  I swipe left and right, and occasionally I’ll meet someone who I feel like I can maybe connect with. And very quickly afterwards, before we even meet, I find some great reasons not to continue this.

  Chelsea, dead at 25, ghosts every man that walks into her life.

  And the thought that maybe I’m not good enough grows more. And I’m the one watering that plant. I’m the dog peeing on my own tree.

  Part of me thinks maybe I need some major life change to help blot out that stain. Maybe if I move 3000 miles away to the other side of the country, I’ll find some form of happiness out there in the sunshine. 

  I could outrun my issues. 

  Maybe I can run right into myself.

  Or maybe everything will be the exact same, but now I’ll just live 3000 miles away from almost all of my friends and I have another excuse to fall deeper into the black pit of my soul.

  ...

  And I still won’t be myself.