Lately, moments feel like precipices I’m balancing on, about to fall and crash and burn and die, and when I do it’s fucking painful but it’s not as bad as holding back from the process of going through. Emotions feel like tsunami waves, changing direction every instance, isolating me slowly but connecting me to myself…Slowly…My heart feels ripped open but it thanks me for it, because it needs it. It needs the space to breathe and feel seen. It needs to know I’m here and I’m really listening.
I think I’m becoming/allowing myself to be more and more human, it just continues to terrify me. Somehow inside I know I’m continuing to be birthed into something new, all the shit that’s wounded is getting healed and as I go deeper I continue to find the me that was born before all this shit landed on top, but in the outer layers of me, I find terror and total resistance and desire to just fucking BE for a minute. Or an hour. Or a day. To just feel fucking normal. And then I remember – much to my frustration – that that doesn’t exist. I want to give this rebirth shit a break and just be able to feel free and be me. But when I try, I subside into darkness and self hatred. Tears and feeling feelings are the only way forward and where my growth seems to happen. Resistance doesn’t do that. But I figured I’d let myself have some because otherwise I’m super human and so that would mean I wouldn’t exist.
Support is what I long for and what I deeply crave, yet deep inside I tell myself I can’t have it and that noone really cares, because noone’s really family. Noone’s really mine. I am really noone’s. Noone’s really deeply connected and gonna bail me out of my pain. When in actual fact that’s a load of bollocks, and when I’ve gone searching for support its always found me. When I’ve reached out and asked, what I’ve needed has always come to me. Always.
I use the excuse of not having family as a reason to stop me asking for support. I use the theory that I’m worthless and undeserving because I don’t have family support, to not reach out and cry. I have this theory that my critic has built upon bricks of foundation-less sand. Upon bricks that were buried as a kid, in response to an abusive mother.
I long for the support around me – the physical connection. I long for the contact and the company and I yell deep inside because my BACK fucking stops me. I long to just get on a train and go and visit loved friends for a few days or a week. I long to just walk down the road and find people I need, but I fucking can’t. And when I can its so painful I feel so fragile and uptight and on edge, in protection of my back. Or the dizziness going on in my head.
So instead I give myself it, I give myself the cuddles I crave. I give myself the physical contact and emotional connection I deserve. And slowly as I do this, I notice it does come from outside too. If I meet the need myself, others will meet it too. As my touch disperses the traumatic chaotic and stressed out energy, others can do it too. But if I’m festering in a desperate silence and a desperate place of need, I’m all discombobulated and complex and my energy is too. When coming from a place of trauma and abuse, I notice the first physical touch that needs to feel safe, is my own. And then can come others. But first, I’m talking cuddles with myself.
And lots of them.