Please be gentle with me. I am writing my memoir, one of them at least. I may never publish it but that’s not the point anyway. I’m doing it for me.
I wrote for a few hours yesterday. It was painful. I could feel rage rising as I finished. I knew I needed to take a break; I knew I needed to attend to my self care. And so I did.
I feel like I am pulling myself down into a hole, unwinding the past. I wonder why I’m doing it. I could stop, but I see that it is necessary for the next big phase I’m moving into. I don’t have to forge ahead without thinking of my self care needs, but I do need to keep going. I am trusting the process.
I cannot tell you how many times in life I have felt so fucked up. I feel pretty fucked up right now, having written, and seeing my past so clearly. But I also know that’s a story I tell myself, the story of my past, the story that I can, will and am breaking free from. That’s why I’m writing after all. I see that there have been many steps forward followed by as many steps backward. I also see resilience. And courage. And the fact that I’m still here, wanting to be the best me I can be.
It’s such a strange thing to feel like a walking paradox, but that is how I feel most days. I see the fucked-up-ness of my reality while at the same time seeing my beauty and all of the possibility that exists within me.
I am doing all of the practices that are important to me, practices that sustain my sanity and help me continue to be the person I want to be, the person who is aware of her tendencies, who is working with them gently, day by day, and giving herself enough grace for mistakes and forgiveness.