The Many Mes of Amy Tee

Chat, it pains me to admit that I have never known a safe or sober love. Every relationship that I have ever been in has been framed by chaos, abuse, and literal spirits blinding me from the truth. I realized that I have always tried to love someone into loving me, looking for validation in all the wrongful places with sneaky, sneaky alcohol leading me down well traveled roads. Finding your voice sans the hazy, warm filter of alcohol is wild, and the moment you realize that you’ve been suppressing that voice with a drink is the day you get to begin again.

My sober-ish existence was brought on initially by an emotionally abusive marriage in which I needed near-constant clarity and was driven home by my mother’s Alzheimer’s caused, in great part, by alcohol. It has also lended itself to past versions of myself that not only I don’t like, but am unable to part with while still imbibing, afraid of who I might be if I let her go but unable to keep her within my grasp much longer. I still have the occasional drink, but that part of me seems to be slipping away and ebbing and flowing into a new form that is, well, me. Terrifying, but so, so good.

@jeffereyczum

Being in my 50s has been nothing short of a blank slate in so many ways, and the raging hormones and longevity of perimenopause have me tumbling backwards through some sort of hellish, adult puberty. Grief has shadowed me now for almost seven years and I have grown around it, absorbing the pain and letting it do with me what it may. This sort of self-actualization comes painstakingly slow for me, and only shows itself after I have allowed myself to languish in the rockiness of my soul, pouring over the notes of my life so far. Learning to meet my faults with grace rather than anger has been key to pushing through the fuzzy gray, static of the not so distant past.

Clinging to old identities reminds me of a 90s fit I bought in London and donated earlier this year. I held onto it for almost 30 years, clinging to the memory of its era and my time with it. I wore it in Paris and was pulled onstage to dance at the Moulin Rouge while wearing it, and it was beautiful and worthy and all the things, but too tight on my skin and anachronistic to who I am now. I have let go of, and sabotaged, many relationships in order to have complete freedom from the versions of myself that accept less than I deserve. Embracing and grieving those releases of self wholly and without judgement are detrimental to healing from these massive losses of love, family and ultimately, who I was with that person. It’s allowed me to take an early inventory of my life and enabled me to face the many women I have been. Getting unstuck is sticky, this I know. TL;DR It’s ok to let go of things that no longer serve you.

-London fit in Paris, 1999

Sometimes I wake up holding my own hand, trying to remember what it feels like to have a warm body next to me. I am comfortable alone, lonely for true connection, and terrified to take the armor off this bandaged heart of mine. I want to get to know the woman whispering dream-laced, sleepy secrets into my ear at 2 a.m., trusting that I tell no one but myself upon waking. She is me, but I am not yet her. It’s in that sweet spot right there, existing akimbo in the void of liminality, that is the most telling and precious. Dig in.

“Awakenings tear us open. They expose all the yucky stuff, the shameful stuff, the secrets, the dreams that were never given a voice, the relationships that imprison us, the words left unsaid. Awakenings are a mirror we can’t turn away from, even in our ugliest, most tattered gown. They force us to get real, to get honest, to get transparent. Awakenings tell, no, awakenings demand that we level up. They force us to be transparent, honest and to take zero bullshit. It’s taking a hammer to your heart and shattering it into a million pieces, only to gingerly pick it up and piece it back together again. It forces you to step up and recognize rather than deny your truth,” Elizabeth Gordon, Elephant Journal

Recognizing my own toxicity has been essential to growth, and the road to enlightenment will be dark and unwelcoming without it. You cannot expect to grow without discomfort, and there is no timeline for the aha moment where the ends begin to connect. I’m leaning hard into an empathic sort of self-reflection where I stop judging myself for my actions and instead dig deeper to find the lesson and recognize patterns that got me here in the first place. The breaking down, the softening, the surrender to what was—all of it feeds what will be, and I know that the waxing and waning of self that I feel is a lesson in surrender, release, and, finallyfingerscrosseditsfeelingkindadifferenthistimeiswear, acceptance.