I have gone March, I have gone mad

March sneaks up on me with the innocence of a child, a game of hide and seek I did not know I was playing. Not winter anymore, not yet spring. The sun sets later now, and I can feel my body letting the light in, beginning to thaw the hardness that winter wrought upon my bones. My spine is soft now, taking the shape of the candles lit on my nightstand, malleable now like the wax near the flame on the wick. That is how March makes me feel every year, shedding the hard outer coating of my shell that kept me warm throughout the holiday season. Not quite a new version of me, not quite the person I once was. 

This March, I am nostalgic. What a fruitless sentence; when am I not? This nostalgia, though, is different. It is not the bittersweet taste of reminiscing on better times, on old friendships and old flames. I do not need to spend any more time dwelling on happy memories I can never relive. I wish to keep them in the libraries of my mind in the state that they are: blissful and frozen in time. This March, I am seemingly nostalgic for my period of heartbreak, the chapter of my life that broke me down and shredded my dignity. The stage of my life where everything became a question to me, with no answer in sight.

How curious it is to recollect such a harrowing time and feel nostalgic for it. How bizarre it is for me to feel wistful for the lost and fragmented girl I was years ago. I can’t really comprehend it myself, how I would never even dream of going through those emotions again, yet I still long for the severed, directionless person I was during that time. Maybe it’s the sympathetic side of me knowing that she will turn out okay, knowing that she will find her way in due time, that makes me feel this way. Maybe realizing that I am no longer at war with the world, at war with my feelings, and am able to appreciate the growth I endured wholeheartedly, I can look back at that time without the broken lenses I couldn’t pry off my face. 

I remember waking up each day for months, for a year, entering the world brandishing my sword, a suit of armor because the pieces I hastily glued back together were still falling apart at the seams under all the metal. Now, I get up and go out into the world, not always with ease, but always with the intention to do as much right as I can, fix all the mistakes I make, and feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude that I am no longer at war. The fighting is over. Maybe that is why I am so nostalgic for the girl who was still in battle, every breath she took at the expense of her victories. Maybe I feel sentimental for that pain she harbored because without that pain, without the pedestal yanked from under her feet, she would have no room for growth. Maybe there is nothing, ever, that can equal the recollection of having your heart broken and learning how to put it back together by yourself. 

This March, I think about the Me I was in October, two years ago. I think about the version of me that couldn’t help but intellectualize love and heartbreak, turning her emotions into a puzzle, believing that if she was able to put everything in its perfect place, then everything would be fixed. I think about her often because I still have parts of her in me today. I think I will always have a part of that girl in me. For so long, I did not know who I was as the battered down victim. I couldn’t stand her, someone who was brought to knees by a man, and above all, someone she loved. But that is not a way to live. How can I be someone to somebody else if I didn’t even know who I was to myself? If I couldn’t face the trust of who I was yesterday, how I can see who anyone else is today?  

I take pride in my hurt. I stopped trying to make sense of my own suffering and instead accepted the way that it has morphed me. Oh god, it was awful. Mechanical hands, metal fingers, forcing me into its palms to shape me. Breaking my bones, tearing my ligaments, trying to bend my mind against its own will. I cracked under the pressure, trying to resist with all its might. But the thing with grief is that it demands to be felt. Maybe, I realized, it was time to give in. And so I did, growing soft under its touch, allowing myself to take me where the misery led. Acknowledging my own flaws through the ache, taking accountability for my mistakes. Stitching wounds, icing the bruises, understanding that rejection is just redirection. 

This March, I am grateful. I recognize that all I have suffered through had meaning, that without it I would not be who I am today. Like the seasons, there can not be spring without the harsh bite of winter. I am excited for March, I am excited for spring. I am excited for the bloom of flowers and the hope that April showers will bring. I am nostalgic for pain the same way I am nostalgic for long winter nights and the cold of the snow. But most of all, I am Spring; I am excited for myself.