It's Not You, It's My Past
"In three more months it'll be two years babe!" I excitedly told my partner one Sunday morning. He barely cracked a smile while making his way to craft our routine weekend lattes while I remained snuggled up in his cozy covers. We still don't live together and the questions regarding our future were overwhelmingly weighing on my heart. There had been a melancholy distance between us for quite some time. It wasn't sudden, yet suddenly, that morning I found myself concerned about the state of our comfortable companionship. Our fairytale presented sudden and tragic moments very early on and Prince Charming had grown tired. These unpleasant events just so happened to showcase my personal life and trust me, I'm no princess.
The self-saboteur Kindra Murphy stars in a new hit dramedy series, What in the Ever Loving Fuck? Centering her story on more FML moments she barely lives through. Literally. It’s sort of a weird time for her because she’s discovering how relationships really work and that love can fall apart and the only thing that's certain is uncertainty. The 33-year-old has been seen in several limited series in the last five years, but this is her first major series role since Hate Mail.
The season premiere kicked off our relationship with a real tear jerker. To this day, losing my best girl friend is still one of my deepest heartaches. This loss landed itself right smack in the middle of the honeymoon stage of my relationship. As time goes by I've learned to live without her. I find these days it's harder and harder to remember the dirty details of our falling out. What even happened? I've been told, and tell myself often that this is "the healing." Time will heal, right? The emotional ups and downs of losing a person, my person, the one I never imagined a life without, was not only hard on me, but also on my partner. Our relationship suffered greatly while I tried to figure out who I was without my other half and slowly losing all faith in humanity. Night after restless night, sob after soul crushing sob, he showed up. He supported me and held my broken heart in his big ole' giant gentle hands.
Next up that season was an exciting episode where I lost my beloved Carrie Bradshaw apartment. You know, the one I wanted to "keep even if I ever get married?" Yea, that one. When my already married and mommied friends shrugged at my ignorant suggestion I'd say, "Come on, wouldn't it be cool to have this rent controlled spot for my future husband and I when we visit California?" I sure thought so. I've always imagined living my life bicoastal. I spent years making that California shit hole my home. Mine. It was mine. I scrubbed every nook and cranny of that apartment until she was squeaky clean. Gosh she was pretty. I took out loans to decorate her to my perfect taste. I wrote some of my best pieces there on late nights at my kitchen table. I spent my mid 20's in that charming bohemian crash pad. Most importantly, I unravelled a lot of my past behind those doors. I learned many a lesson.
The importance of acceptance pushed me into the beauty of becoming a woman.
Well. This woman had a new man and a new agenda. I had made the difficult decision to sublet my apartment, knowingly breaking my lease agreement without a blink of an eye. I traveled for work which meant when I was rarely in L.A. I was spending all of my time with my new other half, my boyfriend. I had to justify how the place I once called home turned into my storage unit. Airbnb post up, money saved, dignity salvaged, problem solved.
Three months later two straight up strippers rented my place for a night. This is a true story. My landlord showed me the footage of them entering our building. Fishnets and red thigh high patent leather boots, arm in arm with a man, a client. I found said man's Calvin Klein boxer briefs under my bed on my return. These rowdy prositutes ran up and down my 30 unit 1920s' building hallways squealing while half naked. My neighbors angrily texted me at the time of the incident(s) 2am, 3am, and a lovely morning squeal at 6am. I received a motherly voicemail from my landlady the following morning. I had been caught, game over, pad crashed, dignity lost. I felt less guilty about the crime I committed and more grody about what went down in my cal king. I fortunately had a long standing respect with my landlord. She offered me two weeks with no eviction on my record and off I went into the wonderful world of West Hollywood. Considering the hookerish happenings that took place I sold all of my furniture, mattress included. With nothing but my clothing to my name, I found a room for rent. Frustrated, yet hopeful I set a new rule that only I am allowed to do hookerish things in my bed, goddammit.
The foundation of my relationship became shaky as the season finale started with a big bang showcasing my physical and mental health being in jeopardy. As time went on I somewhat adjusted to my new surroundings. No matter what I did I couldn't shake feeling like a failure being 33 and renting a room with a stranger. I let my ego get the best of me while I mourned my old life. I'd lost the best friend, the dream living situation and now my overall wellbeing. This time in my life felt like it was almost nothing but big excruciating moments. Kindra's life had taken a fatal fall.
Have you ever had such a bad sinus infection that you can't taste or smell? Your eyelids swell up and the amount of tissue you use could last you a lifetime. Everyone knows one to two boxes of tissue should last a household at least one whole year. I was blowing through four boxes a month. My insides began to match my outsides. The pressure building inside my sinus cavities had become unbearable. Chronic Sinusitis had returned with a vengeance. I spent countless nights at all hours crying in the bathtub, hoping the steam would help open up my airways. I'm a flight attendant so simply showing up for work was intolerable. I could barely sleep, because life requires breathing and this was difficult for me while awake. I couldn't taste or smell the chef inspired dinners my wonderful boyfriend made us. No medicine helped. Nothing made me feel better. I became seriously depressed. I looked like I was okay on the outside, but was deeply suffering inside and barely making it through my life. There went my health.
I'd lost everything except him.
I took a leave of absence from work and scheduled a surgery. The first surgery was aborted due to complications and loss of blood. At a dead end and still sick, I was left questioning my existence. Dramatic, I know. Spoiler alert, it gets worse. With no avail, my past came back to haunt me. I thought I'd done the accepting. I thought I'd finally let go. But instead it lingered in my despair. Why couldn't I be one of those people who goes through a hardship and finds unrelenting hope? Instead, I glean in the decisions my parents made, in the abuse I've endured and the upbringing I never wanted. This is who I am. It's my default. Can I change it? Probably, but will I? I don't know. I'm still trying.
My default settings are causing me to potentially lose that one last speck of hope I've had all along. True love. His active gentleness has carried me through these rough times. But is it "true love" if I hate the phase of life that I'm in? Can I possibly bring happiness to another if I'm incapable of showing up for myself? My body is somewhat well now, but my mind is mixed up. I'm severely unhappy. My needs aren't necessarily clear to me at this point in my life.
For me, suffering is a way of finding myself. So maybe in a way, I am one of those people who does lean into hope. Maybe being hopeful includes being uncomfortable. I've accepted that I'll most likely always be overly sensitive, confused, and all around difficult. My internal dialogue is like a record skipping on the lyrics " fuck my life, what the fuck, fuck my life, what the fuck" Oh, you've never heard that song? It's my favorite.
Maybe we have to lose everything to find out who we really are.
Season finale, To Be Continued.