Restorative Yoga Made Me Cry

After my round of Power Yoga yesterday, I couldn't help but roll my eyes at Restorative Yoga. It was the only class that I could make it to today.

The instructor said that we were going to hold poses for five to ten minutes and that it would cleanse our internal organs and allow our nervous system to switch from sympathetic to parasympathetic. I mean, I'm granola, but I'm not that granola. Anyway, I was already there and ready to get a good stretch on.

We laid in cobbler's pose and I could feel my right shoulder relaxing. It cramps up if I work more than two shifts in a row. She was talking about the half-awake state you find yourself in at 9 a.m. on a Sunday morning, laying next to a pet or a loved one. And in the middle of yoga, at my way-too-fancy gym, I started crying. Like a loser. Because I moved to Texas by myself and I am so homesick, not knowing where home is at this point.

I didn't like my job in Phoenix. But I liked my life. I loved my neighborhood. I loved being able to walk to Beckett's Table or LGO or Pita Jungle with Russell. I liked having a membership to the Desert Botanical Garden. I liked being a ten minute drive from the airport. I liked tubing the river in June and monsoon season and cooking with my boy in our tiny kitchen.

I liked having a place in which I belonged, even if it wasn't quite home.

And now, it's just me. And Vegas. And a tiny apartment that feels too big and no friends to call for brunch and a job that pays the bills but isn't quite what I expected it to be. I don't hate it, but I don't particularly like it, either. There's too much chaos and not enough babies and I'm so busy that I don't have time to think, which is important when lives are on the line. I'm learning how to juggle and appease but not how to think clearly. I'm often frustrated and annoyed and I can already feel myself not caring about these people. This isn't why I became a nurse and it isn't the type of nurse that I want to be.

I'm here for a little while, until the idea of packing up and moving again doesn't seem so insane. Until I can finish a few more certifications and get a few more months at this job. Until Russell finds a job somewhere that can be a home for both of us.

Things I Have Learned at the Gym

- If you walk into what you think is supposed to be a nice vinyasa yoga class and the guy in front of you has an Ironman (the triathlon, not the superhero) tattoo, you're about to get your butt kicked.

- People who like to work out really like to sweat. I don't particularly like to do either, but I still do both.

- The older you are, the more you like to walk around naked ALL THE TIME in the locker room. As a card-carrying never-nude, this disturbs me terribly.

- I am not the weirdest person there. Case in point: the woman showering next to me after her workout was belting out 80s tunes the whole time. You go girl.

- Even though I'm often sleep deprived, getting a good workout in makes me feel a thousand times better.

- Spin classes still scare the bejeezus out of me.

Sleepless

*So I live in Texas now. I got a job and moved out here and things are great, although Ben is my only friend. I joined a gym to get myself out of the house and in hopes that I might make some awesome girlfriends. Other than that, I don't have a whole lot to say. I know that my dad and a few other people like reading the nonsense that I write, so I'm busting out some vintage blogs that I didn't have the guts to post at the time. Here's some vintage Katy from 2008, laying it out the way you only can when you're 21 and have just gotten your heart smashed into bits.*


Sometimes I wish I had an accurate count of how many nights I have spent like this. Awake. Silent. Waiting for a phone call that will never come. These nights pass without tears, without music, but achingly full of thoughts that I can't control.

Here is the painful, ugly, honest truth:

I loved you. I would have done anything and been anyone for you. I would have waited a thousand years for you to come back to me. I would have ignored every single red flag and foregone every means of defending myself if it meant that you would have been in my life. You were my first love. You were my only love. I loved you with every atom in my body and you shattered every last piece of me by walking in and out of my life time and time again. I let you hurt me again and again because I loved you more than I can say.

I don't understand. I don't know when it all changed or why you decided not to tell me anything, leaving me to form bitter assumptions. I don't know if you ever think of me and I wouldn't be surprised if you never do. I don't love you anymore and I don't miss you, but these unanswered questions still leave me restless. I stay awake because it still hurts; I spent years pretending not to mourn, because I didn't think that I had the right.

I wish you had been man enough to protect me. I wish that you had been steadfast and stepped back when all of this started, instead of infiltrating my heart like ivy encircling an old wooden fence. I wish that I had been older and less naive and I wish I wouldn't have allowed you to take advantage of the love that I had for you. I wish you had been man enough to tell me the truth, instead of convincing yourself that I was tough enough to do this on my own. We both know that I was strong enough, but I wish you would have cared enough for me to tell me yourself.

I don't want you. I don't want an apology. I don't even want my letters back, because there's no way to pretend that I didn't carefully address them, sending another piece of my heart with each one. I just want to know what happened; after three years, I at least deserve that.