Bearing witness

The first of the free writing posts. Lately I’ve been loving free writing, and there’s something super healing about keeping it just for me. But other times, like now, I long to share the waffle with the world, because within the waffle are words that need to be heard. I just don’t go back editing it all, because the art of expression is the art itself. Editing is for some things, and not for others. This is one of the others. Turns out, waffle is healing gold dust.


Inside i’m screaming, desperate to get out. Inside I’m screaming, desperate to get out. Inside I’m screaming, like no words will come out. Like noone can listen to what comes out my spout. Like no diamond is gentler than the one I carry on my lips. The diamond of resentment and bitterness and sweet sweet hate. Of all those that left me when I needed it most. Of all those that left me for it, to hold and to cope. All those that never knew what went on beneath the surface. All those that never knew what it was like to be me. All those that never knew what I had to deal with and what I had to endure.

This anger festers and brews, and lands on those that offer assistance now. Projection feels like the theme of my days. Projection feels like the destined process I am in. It feels like the medicine I never was given. It feels like the opportunity to witness what goes on within. It feels like the place I get to see what is really me. It feels like the place I get to visit, the deepest darkest parts of me.

It feels like a place I get to witness, what really goes on beneath the surface of content. Beneath the surface of resentment, bitterness, and sweet sweet. In its place is actual hard hitting evidence that people hate me. That people think I’m disgusting. That people think I’m gross. That people think I’m better off dead and not speaking to them. That people think I’m not worthy of love and belonging. That people think I’m better off dead.

But this is projection. This is the dialogue that goes on in my head, landing on other folks lips. This is the dialogue I get into when I’m left, to battle with my own inner voices and my critic’s chatter in my head. Some day I’ll listen to one voice entirely – the one of the person stood beneath me trying to tell me of my greatness. Trying to welcome me and my shadow. Trying to tell me of unconditional loving, and unconditional support. Trying to tell me that what matters most is my safety and my contentment. Trying to tell me that I deserve all that I can get, and I deserve to have my heart truly sing.

That I deserve the potion of forgiveness – to that of myself, and that of others. But most of all myself. That I deserve to bathe in a tub of forgiveness, and hold a shallow pot of hope between the palm of my hands…keeping it with me when days get rough. Keeping it with me in days I need to remember what’s left, and what is growing. In days like this, I need to remember that I deserve the potion of forgiveness just like everyone else. That no matter how alone and isolated and uniquely in turmoil I feel, I deserve this love and belonging just like everybody else. Just because my heart is bleeding and my mind has escaped to a place of stressful freedom, I deserve to know I belong. I deserve to know I am me. I deserve to have a place I can call my own and hold my own. I deserve to have a place I can call, me.

I deserve to be loved, just like everybody else I know – and don’t know – does. I deserve to remember it’s a human birthright.

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Lately I’ve been knowing that all this is different. That all this is shadowed by a need to resolve a wounded hurt. A wounded shadow that buries and bursts deep within. A deep wounding hurt that knows only my name, and is shadowed beneath a darkness that buries within too. That takes me with it, to a place of resentment a place of hurt. Like a kingdom of resentment towards the fuckers who made it so. Towards the fuckers who made this shit happen. To those who didn’t stop it. To those who didn’t make it not happen. To those who didn’t know where to find the off switch, until I tried to myself. To those who wrestled with the knowing that nothing is really different if you can’t see it. To those that knew of nothing but contentment with the life they were truly having. With the life they were born by living, and born by nothing but a cloud of living beneath a sky of good.

Beneath a cloud of living and a wrestling knowledge that nothing bad will happen because of the way they are bred. Because of the way they are lingering with contentment and resented freedom from nothing crazy bad and nothing crazy good. Instead, they potter through a life lived mediocre.Through a life lived sideways and sheltered by highways of forgiveness and forgiven, of highways of sadness that shelters nothing but within, that shelters freedom and a darkness of nothing but within. It cradles resentment and contentment the same. It cradles love and contentment in a way that nothing else can matter, but the lack of it matters in lives not lived this way and lives lived the opposite of sideways. Of lives lived back to front and upside down and rattled from within.

Those are the lives that are led with meaning, and true contentment and true freedom. Those are the lives that, despite the turmoil and the pain, bring a sense that there’s something greater. That there’s something greater that knows my name. That I matter just as much as a shadow or another name. That my presence matters and my presence is justifiably important, and justifiably good. And justifiability beautiful. And that I am all of those things too.

Because I am.


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