Welcome back, friends.
A week off, camera in hand, was just what I needed. Taking the time to live in-between the posts feels really good and there’s a lot of living to be had in my life.
My eyes are full lately, tired and unwavering, but full. They’re waiting to let go and I hope soon that we can. I have a spring of tears waiting for the day I can exhale.
It’s been a really shitty 2012 in so many ways so far. Like it’s been building since 2009 and add a little of this, some of that – we have a situation that can go in two ways. Therapy helps tremendously because I’m learning that although I went through most of my life thinking I had dodged the “daddy issues” – oh good god, do I have daddy issues … and now we’re dealing with them. I have family issues, self issues, shame issues, rule issues and defiant issues, too. Basically, I’m human and it’s harder than I thought.
I have way too much anger. So much negativity. What ever joy I had in my life at one point is now constantly painted with pain.
Wanna wake up inside of that every day? Yea, me either. And 2012 just kept getting worse. One day at a time, one conversation at a time; things were breaking all around me and I was breaking all around it.
Which is a good place to start. Over.
I keep painting the picture, in words, of a fire. Ashes, laying down. Flames licking me. I’m not done using that one yet – but there’s no better way for me to describe this. How literal that word-picture feels to me. Everything is burning down and for some odd reason I keep trying to run through the wreckage and save something. I don’t even know what I want to save anymore – I’m just trying and learning that maybe what’s left isn’t for me to put back together. That maybe my job in this journey is to witness and take note, to be present and listen.
I am in need of some major self-grace. I watch people functioning and I wonder, god how does that feel? To be so light? And I’m starting to find out. To release myself of bondage that I was taught to wear. I’m facing the fears I’ve run away from for so very long. The fears that if I say my truth out-loud that it might be wrong. Right? I mean, seriously. Being perfect (or the expectation of it) has been something I’ve been operating under since I was 12.
You wanna know what it feels like to live under that shadow? And still mess up? And wonder how the hell you’re going to make this one better? Because you can’t. You cannot. You can’t convince someone to love you, to forgive you. You surely cannot convince yourself – no mirror is going to actually talk back to you and tell you how awesome your butt looks in those jeans.
No eye liner is going to mask the hidden torture behind your eyes.
No song on the radio is going subliminally get your message across to an unknown audience. No amount of writing circles around your desires is going to bring them to fruition.
I’ve been reminded lately how awesome our body’s design is. How we regenerate the cells, how we heal physically. I watch bruises and scratches disappear on my kids’ knees from the playground games or the unfortunate meeting with the driveway and it’s such an amazing thing to see.
Where once there was brokenness, scabs and blood – there’s now fresh new skin. Pink and painted with life. I don’t think I’ve ever really shed my scabs before. I just keep putting on Band-Aids. Hiding from the fact that I even have a wound.
And yet, who’s surprised that I have any? Certainly not any of you … I write about them all the time. About their wreckage on my soul. About the fact that, although I’ve tried everything in the book, I cannot erase them.
So I’m wearing them. Not holding them down. Not strapping them to my back. Like a tattoo I paint on my skin, I’m bearing my scars and owning them.
No more shameful, instead … shameless.
Or at least trying. Harder than ever before. Because you know what comes after the rain? After the fire and through the ashes? After the scab, the wound? After … After … After …
Something beautiful and new and