It’s a constant puzzle to think of this healing that’s happening, as happening. To think of stuff that I never thought I would say, just flow out of my mouth freely and openly as though I didn’t only realise it yesterday. As though this is how I’ve always spoken. It’s a peculiar puzzle to think of something that I once used to imagine and detest, is now me…I am someone that speaks and talks, and shares and cries. I am someone that is beginning to know this is safe. I am becoming a person I never thought I would be, and hoped I always wouldn’t. I hoped that for the entire time of being alive I could avoid this – I could avoid this messy turmoil of what’s going on. The messy turmoil of what’s mine, coming to the surface to be heard and consumed by love and tears. By laughter and acceptance. By an unadultered freedom that I cannot only cope with, but that I can create. With my own two hands – this life I am living is mine. It is lying within my hands, two palms facing upwards. Two hands facing mine. Two hands cradling my soul, to tell my inner child is safe.
Two hands that are mine, and that are mine to hold. And always will be.
This journey feels like a constant battle of resistance and resilience. It feels like a dance between what’s mine and what’s the truth. Between mine from the now, mine from the future, and mine from the past. There feels like such a confusion between what is actually happening, and what is the mixed up truth stirred in a pot of trauma. It feels combined with a fear that I am becoming my mother. It has pinches of hopeless longing to just become her. As though it’s where I’m destined, it’s my future, it’s just what I’m meant to be so I’d prefer it if it just happened…lets quit this inconsistency of constantly trying and never fucking getting anywhere. Or more like, getting somewhere but then shooting right fucking backwards into a pile of illness or shit, or hate.
But as much as I want to continue typing that, I know it’s not true. There’s a motherfucking shit load of anger here for this journey and how I have no idea how it’s going to turn out. But rather than a rage at me, I want a fucking rage at LIFE. I want to yell in its face and ask it WHAT IT WAS THINKING?! What was it thinking when it gave me two slipped discs? What was it thinking when it put me in the belly of my fucking mother? What was it thinking when it took me to a place that left me needing to overdose? What was it thinking when it showed me the places I would live in, but didn’t hold up a warning or leave a note, to let me know they aren’t – and wouldn’t be – permanent? What was it thinking when it didn’t fucking let me know things would be like this? What was it thinking when it let me think it might always be the same – that I might always be able to do things solo. That I might be able to always do things on my own and not need the help I now know I do.
What’s funny is, a lot of the frustration I have and the anger that rages, doesn’t make ‘sense’. But the most beautiful doesn’t need to. Intellectualising fucks me over, but letting it be here does the complete opposite.
It reminds me I am human and I deserve this. I deserve all of this.
And so do you. And that’s fucking beautiful.