Friday, December 26, 2014
Big feelings
This Christmas has been one of the most magical that I have ever experienced--the spirit of generosity of people around has blown my mind. My workplace literally made Christmas at my house by bringing unbelievable gifts and gift cards for me and my kids. Many family and friends have donated time, money, energy, love and everything they have to give. My brother came here from Florida and has spend every waking moment trying to make our lives easier (he had to put a lot on the back burner to spend all this time here--thanks to his wife Cindy for holding down the fort). My best friends have been by my side constantly. Extended family I have never met have reached out and given; my sister's best friend dropped everything and made a trip from Califorina to be with us. My sister's co-workers gave a huge gift. Tonight we ate a delicious home cooked meal made with love by a dear friend. My brother's workplace, my church, my parent's friends, everyone from everywhere is showing love and support. My people are here with me and for me day and night and it brings me gratitude beyond words.
It would not be telling the whole story to stop there. Things are hard. My daughter is hurting and I can't fix it. My dishes are all mixed up. I am losing control of areas of my life that I like to be in charge of. My pain has not let up. I had a large dose of radiation and it kicked my butt--I've been tired and whooped. Most of my near and dear relationships are being strengthened--but hard relationships are still hard. I have had to deal with waves of hurt and anger that really suck.
Believe it or not, I am finding that even traumatic situations have honeymoons, and it feels like the honeymoon of getting to see and hear from beloveds near and far and the generosity of my community no longer packs the punch of making the hard stuff feel less impactful. The honeymoon seems to be coming to a close. I am realizing the long hard battle in front of me. I know some days are going to suck. Today I had the distinct feeling that I want better answers when people ask me how I am doing. I also realized the magnitude of the many days in front of me that may not have the positive answer I hope for to the simple question, "how are you doing?" I'm sure knowing myself that I will find a way to continue to see and feel hope and gratitude everyday--but this is hitting me in a new way--I am feeling a new depth of how much this really sucks. I appreciate the continued thoughts and prayers. I see the doctor again on Wednesday and at that time we will make a plan for my treatment. I will update when I get more information. Love to all.
Wednesday, December 17, 2014
A New Truth
After a dozen or so false starts on writing a blog post, I woke up this morning and decided that I do not have to say something important. I do not have to write a piece that I am proud of --I just need to write and post.
It has been two weeks since I entered into the slow process of cancer diagnosis, prognosis, and treatment. We have not yet started the treatment phase and we have barely touched on the prognosis.
But I know. This is bad. I have stage four lung cancer. My google investigation reveals that less than one percent of people with this diagnosis live five years. The median life expectancy is eight months. My pelvis has a large tumor that I have been struggling with excruciating pain in for many months. It was more than two years ago that I had acupuncture and saw an orthopedic doctor for hip pain. I know, this is a grim diagnosis.
I have faced the reality that I may die in the very near future and I have been surprised at my reaction. I have been emotionally pretty fine. Don't get me wrong, when I think about my two children and I think about the future for them my heart is broken in a way that keeps me from going there. I have not been thinking much about the future or the past. This diagnosis has proven to be the most zen experience I have ever had. I have been forced (or chosen?) to live in the moment. It sounds so cliche, but it is all I have. It has been a trip of an experience so far-- and I am okay.
I have to pinch myself and ask, is this denial? I don't think so, I am really clear that this shit is real. Is this just a phase that will change? Probably. Is this the reward for actively working on my own spirituality for the past several years and knowing where I stand and what I believe? I think so, but that is only part of it.
I've been through the deaths of many beloveds. I have only once had the honor of walking through a death that was known as likely ahead of time. Tragic deaths rob us of the chance to hold and touch each other and to sob and share love. Although i can hardly bare to think of the impact that losing me will have on my children in the future, as I face the real possibility of my mortality, I feel blessed to have the chance to die in a known way. Blessed to be able to invite you to go through this process with me. To laugh, to cry, to touch each other and to share love.
I know this is very morbid--I am not giving in or giving up. I know there are miracles. But I am not called to ask to be a miracle. I will take it with gratitude if it is meant to be, I will be very sad to not be in this body and this world as I know it, but I have known and accepted for a long time that this life was a limited time offer.
I hope I don't sound like a selfish asshole--these feelings of peace around most of this make me wonder if I am one. I think I needed to write because this diagnosis and the thoughts and feelings that go along with it have been surprising. I hope to continue to document this process in writing as I move through it. I am blessed by the love and support of so many people around me right now--I hope that everyone gets to know this kind of love in their lifetime. In love, Colleen
It has been two weeks since I entered into the slow process of cancer diagnosis, prognosis, and treatment. We have not yet started the treatment phase and we have barely touched on the prognosis.
But I know. This is bad. I have stage four lung cancer. My google investigation reveals that less than one percent of people with this diagnosis live five years. The median life expectancy is eight months. My pelvis has a large tumor that I have been struggling with excruciating pain in for many months. It was more than two years ago that I had acupuncture and saw an orthopedic doctor for hip pain. I know, this is a grim diagnosis.
I have faced the reality that I may die in the very near future and I have been surprised at my reaction. I have been emotionally pretty fine. Don't get me wrong, when I think about my two children and I think about the future for them my heart is broken in a way that keeps me from going there. I have not been thinking much about the future or the past. This diagnosis has proven to be the most zen experience I have ever had. I have been forced (or chosen?) to live in the moment. It sounds so cliche, but it is all I have. It has been a trip of an experience so far-- and I am okay.
I have to pinch myself and ask, is this denial? I don't think so, I am really clear that this shit is real. Is this just a phase that will change? Probably. Is this the reward for actively working on my own spirituality for the past several years and knowing where I stand and what I believe? I think so, but that is only part of it.
I've been through the deaths of many beloveds. I have only once had the honor of walking through a death that was known as likely ahead of time. Tragic deaths rob us of the chance to hold and touch each other and to sob and share love. Although i can hardly bare to think of the impact that losing me will have on my children in the future, as I face the real possibility of my mortality, I feel blessed to have the chance to die in a known way. Blessed to be able to invite you to go through this process with me. To laugh, to cry, to touch each other and to share love.
I know this is very morbid--I am not giving in or giving up. I know there are miracles. But I am not called to ask to be a miracle. I will take it with gratitude if it is meant to be, I will be very sad to not be in this body and this world as I know it, but I have known and accepted for a long time that this life was a limited time offer.
I hope I don't sound like a selfish asshole--these feelings of peace around most of this make me wonder if I am one. I think I needed to write because this diagnosis and the thoughts and feelings that go along with it have been surprising. I hope to continue to document this process in writing as I move through it. I am blessed by the love and support of so many people around me right now--I hope that everyone gets to know this kind of love in their lifetime. In love, Colleen
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
the burning sun
In the days before the heat wave, I was replanting things in my yard. I love the brief time that I spend holding the roots of a plant. There is something intimate, private, and special about putting my fingers into the dirt that holds the roots tight and loosening them up. I have garden gloves, but for this task nothing but bare hands will do. Over and over on Saturday, I noticed how much I enjoyed this experience.
Yesterday began phase two in my daughter's treatment process. She is type 1 diabetic and things have not been going well with her management. We were referred to a special program and yesterday was the assessment. I was ready for the new diagnosis. I was ready to fight for a three to five day inpatient stay--the recommendation came back from the doctor. Two to three weeks inpatient. We can get her in today.
This is not a blog about my daughter--there are many things about my daughter's story that add layers of depth to my current sea of truth. Those parts I hold dear but are not mine to tell. It is interesting my selfish parts that come up when a change is about to happen that will change the fiber and the grain of how our family lives. It doesn't matter that it may be for the better. In this moment it doesn't mean anything that on the big picture level this is what we want. I am scared. I'm scared of the work I have to do. I'm scared of the patterns of our lives that will be changed. The timing is bad. If there is no state budget in the next three weeks I will not be working come July 1st. I have not got the time to be super involved in a family program when what I need to be doing right now is work.
As much as I know this is the right thing to do, I still question exposing my daughter's tender roots. Am I wrong, assisting with gently untangling the ball that has grown so that it might be replanted in healthier soil? The plants I moved on Saturday took an especially hard beating in the relentless sun yesterday. I worry about the unforgiving sun. Beating down. Life is not always gentle or easy, and I can never keep my daughter from the joys and pains of that truth. I know this is going to be painful growth.
Here is an opportunity to stay present. Yes things are going to change. Yes, we may even come out with a bit of a sunburn, but this too shall pass. Phoenix from the flame baby.
Yesterday began phase two in my daughter's treatment process. She is type 1 diabetic and things have not been going well with her management. We were referred to a special program and yesterday was the assessment. I was ready for the new diagnosis. I was ready to fight for a three to five day inpatient stay--the recommendation came back from the doctor. Two to three weeks inpatient. We can get her in today.
This is not a blog about my daughter--there are many things about my daughter's story that add layers of depth to my current sea of truth. Those parts I hold dear but are not mine to tell. It is interesting my selfish parts that come up when a change is about to happen that will change the fiber and the grain of how our family lives. It doesn't matter that it may be for the better. In this moment it doesn't mean anything that on the big picture level this is what we want. I am scared. I'm scared of the work I have to do. I'm scared of the patterns of our lives that will be changed. The timing is bad. If there is no state budget in the next three weeks I will not be working come July 1st. I have not got the time to be super involved in a family program when what I need to be doing right now is work.
As much as I know this is the right thing to do, I still question exposing my daughter's tender roots. Am I wrong, assisting with gently untangling the ball that has grown so that it might be replanted in healthier soil? The plants I moved on Saturday took an especially hard beating in the relentless sun yesterday. I worry about the unforgiving sun. Beating down. Life is not always gentle or easy, and I can never keep my daughter from the joys and pains of that truth. I know this is going to be painful growth.
Here is an opportunity to stay present. Yes things are going to change. Yes, we may even come out with a bit of a sunburn, but this too shall pass. Phoenix from the flame baby.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
living with Joy
Each of us carry burden. Like a jar of rocks we each have our own collection of suffering to carry with us through life. This morning I woke, thinking about my sufferings as rocks. I imagined holding them in my hands, and i took time to explore some of my rocks and the pain and gifts that came from them. Most of my rocks I have had long enough that I have come to have a relationship with them. These sufferings morph, change, become sometimes smoother, sometimes edgier.
When people get a new burden, especially a sudden unexpected burden, it shakes our human connections. What can we do? People reach out with words, "it will get better;" "everything happens for a reason." Some people shut down and don't reach out at all because they don't know what to say. We are taught that somehow if we say the right words, it will make things better.
The words we look for are the translation of our hearts wanting to acknowledge the hurt. We feel the black hole of despair as deep as the love we want to express. Sometimes there are no good words to say. What the fuck. There are some things that will never be okay. When my sister died and people told me it will be okay, I remember promising my sister that I would never let that be true. There are some things so unfair that my human understanding will never offer fate or reason to those who hold such burden. All I can do is show up. And show up some more. Wash tables, sweep floors. Share memories. Crack jokes. And hold the space for "what the fuck" to be the only thing worth saying.
When the tsunami struck I went through a series of emotions and here is what I learned. My heart broke open for all the loss and devastation. I wanted to be part of the solution somehow. I thought I had only prayer to offer. As I held the tsunami stone with the rest of the world, three things happened. First, I heard a statistic that in March 2011, three million people died from starvation, a quarter million died from malaria, 100,000 died from car crashes, and 28,000 died from quakes and tsunamis (it was a tweet on twitter). Second, in one week my partner's uncle committed suicide, my friend had a cousin who was hit by a train (and survived--many broken bones), and a fb friend lost her best friend's daughter to murder. I had two friends somewhere in the process of hospitalization to ensure their adolescent's health and safety. I too, was on the brink of hospitalizing my own child for depression. It put in perspective that we have a world worth having a broken heart over every single day.
I am a student of Mother Earth. I believe that when we sit with her and use our senses to absorb her intuition, we gain information on right action. All that brokenness, and I went outside and I saw--buds. Springtime. Buds of life coming into my world about to be born. I remembered the world I wanted my children to be born into. I wanted this season's new life to experience the joy and beauty of life on Earth. None of the stones I was holding were my own. I had to put them all down--my job was to show joy and hospitality to this new life in my yard, and to my world. Because I could do that. As Mother Earth hurts from the attacks done her, still she stands in shameless joy where ever she can. Still she creates and still she loves.
I am a student of Mother Earth-- today my job is to show up when I can and to celebrate moments of joy. Taking care of myself and having access to happiness is the best thing I can do for my daughter and for all these broken parts of our world. Let's dance and show some joy. We all need it.
When people get a new burden, especially a sudden unexpected burden, it shakes our human connections. What can we do? People reach out with words, "it will get better;" "everything happens for a reason." Some people shut down and don't reach out at all because they don't know what to say. We are taught that somehow if we say the right words, it will make things better.
The words we look for are the translation of our hearts wanting to acknowledge the hurt. We feel the black hole of despair as deep as the love we want to express. Sometimes there are no good words to say. What the fuck. There are some things that will never be okay. When my sister died and people told me it will be okay, I remember promising my sister that I would never let that be true. There are some things so unfair that my human understanding will never offer fate or reason to those who hold such burden. All I can do is show up. And show up some more. Wash tables, sweep floors. Share memories. Crack jokes. And hold the space for "what the fuck" to be the only thing worth saying.
When the tsunami struck I went through a series of emotions and here is what I learned. My heart broke open for all the loss and devastation. I wanted to be part of the solution somehow. I thought I had only prayer to offer. As I held the tsunami stone with the rest of the world, three things happened. First, I heard a statistic that in March 2011, three million people died from starvation, a quarter million died from malaria, 100,000 died from car crashes, and 28,000 died from quakes and tsunamis (it was a tweet on twitter). Second, in one week my partner's uncle committed suicide, my friend had a cousin who was hit by a train (and survived--many broken bones), and a fb friend lost her best friend's daughter to murder. I had two friends somewhere in the process of hospitalization to ensure their adolescent's health and safety. I too, was on the brink of hospitalizing my own child for depression. It put in perspective that we have a world worth having a broken heart over every single day.
I am a student of Mother Earth. I believe that when we sit with her and use our senses to absorb her intuition, we gain information on right action. All that brokenness, and I went outside and I saw--buds. Springtime. Buds of life coming into my world about to be born. I remembered the world I wanted my children to be born into. I wanted this season's new life to experience the joy and beauty of life on Earth. None of the stones I was holding were my own. I had to put them all down--my job was to show joy and hospitality to this new life in my yard, and to my world. Because I could do that. As Mother Earth hurts from the attacks done her, still she stands in shameless joy where ever she can. Still she creates and still she loves.
I am a student of Mother Earth-- today my job is to show up when I can and to celebrate moments of joy. Taking care of myself and having access to happiness is the best thing I can do for my daughter and for all these broken parts of our world. Let's dance and show some joy. We all need it.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
another truth
I was clear that something needed to budge in my life, taking baby steps toward meaningful change, and listening for my call. Literally. And as I opened my heart to what that might look like, I struggled with trusting and knowing that I would know what is the next best thing for me. What is my work in this world? I know that after each choice I make, a ship of life possibility sets sail without me. I fear that I could never know the right ship to take.
so, I just trust. breathe. stay present. and all of the other stuff falls away. Magic happens and gifts come.
It really is as easy as that. My gifts are a calling. I am called to connect to others through the courage of telling my story. I am called to dance more joy into our worlds. I am called to heal myself and my family. I an called to learn more so that I can be a better teacher. I am called to stop diminishing my calling as a teacher. This is divine and dropped into my lap for no other reason than that I asked for it.
Sure, there are fleeting moments of doubt, but it is also true that I am as sure of these things as I have ever been sure of anything. I am following my own star home. Trusting the rightness of it makes the risks just a necessary part of the journey.
so, I just trust. breathe. stay present. and all of the other stuff falls away. Magic happens and gifts come.
It really is as easy as that. My gifts are a calling. I am called to connect to others through the courage of telling my story. I am called to dance more joy into our worlds. I am called to heal myself and my family. I an called to learn more so that I can be a better teacher. I am called to stop diminishing my calling as a teacher. This is divine and dropped into my lap for no other reason than that I asked for it.
Sure, there are fleeting moments of doubt, but it is also true that I am as sure of these things as I have ever been sure of anything. I am following my own star home. Trusting the rightness of it makes the risks just a necessary part of the journey.
I step into the flow, and then I let it go.
I surrender.
I surrender.
I surrender.
I open my mind, my heart, and my soul. (River Roberts)
getting in the way
written May 27, 2011
Officially, my commitment to this work started yesterday. Interestingly, I had a profoundly challenging emotional day. This work is working me. The commitment was made and right away the fear in me started lashing out like the tantrum of a toddler. I can hear it in my last blog.
In fleeting moments, doubts came up. After I posted, I questioned my presumptuous belief that this blog mattered. Even just to me. I asked myself what's the point? People will know things about me that they may judge, or worse yet, they may decide they no longer like me. Maybe I need to write a blog entry that shows the not-so-vulnerable side of me. For gods' sake, could I just tell a positive or funny story? I am aware that I am not a writer like the writers I love--those people who are in such concert with words that I would wallpaper rooms with their quotes. I tell myself my work is marginal, unworthy. i have friends with titles. I have friends whose work I admire. I catch myself weighing my own human breaks against my assumptions about other peoples worth and wholeness. I do not want this to be today's truth. I think I want to be where I think you are.
I feel extra vulnerable when I am presenting myself as a full human who doesn't have it all figured out.
What is in the way of my fullest embodiment of me is the feeling that I need approval. When I tell you who I really am, I no longer deny the things I fear you might not like about me. It is the thoughts of what I should be writing. What this should look like.
I want to help access more joy in this world and this was not the post I wanted to write. When I tell the truth about my vulnerabilities the story you know of me is a soft version lacking protection. The animal in me knows--I am completely vulnerable to attack, and when animals see vulnerability, attack is a natural animal response.
I'm going to face risk, see the vulnerability, and do it anyway. My truth today: I want acceptance. This want has a history in me of manifesting in less than helpful ways. I'm ready to name this vulnerability, talk gently to it, and invite it's transformation into a more useful practice. Hiding is no longer an option.
Officially, my commitment to this work started yesterday. Interestingly, I had a profoundly challenging emotional day. This work is working me. The commitment was made and right away the fear in me started lashing out like the tantrum of a toddler. I can hear it in my last blog.
In fleeting moments, doubts came up. After I posted, I questioned my presumptuous belief that this blog mattered. Even just to me. I asked myself what's the point? People will know things about me that they may judge, or worse yet, they may decide they no longer like me. Maybe I need to write a blog entry that shows the not-so-vulnerable side of me. For gods' sake, could I just tell a positive or funny story? I am aware that I am not a writer like the writers I love--those people who are in such concert with words that I would wallpaper rooms with their quotes. I tell myself my work is marginal, unworthy. i have friends with titles. I have friends whose work I admire. I catch myself weighing my own human breaks against my assumptions about other peoples worth and wholeness. I do not want this to be today's truth. I think I want to be where I think you are.
I feel extra vulnerable when I am presenting myself as a full human who doesn't have it all figured out.
What is in the way of my fullest embodiment of me is the feeling that I need approval. When I tell you who I really am, I no longer deny the things I fear you might not like about me. It is the thoughts of what I should be writing. What this should look like.
I want to help access more joy in this world and this was not the post I wanted to write. When I tell the truth about my vulnerabilities the story you know of me is a soft version lacking protection. The animal in me knows--I am completely vulnerable to attack, and when animals see vulnerability, attack is a natural animal response.
I'm going to face risk, see the vulnerability, and do it anyway. My truth today: I want acceptance. This want has a history in me of manifesting in less than helpful ways. I'm ready to name this vulnerability, talk gently to it, and invite it's transformation into a more useful practice. Hiding is no longer an option.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
the substance of me
I remember the moment I realized that I had an amazing brain that could reason. I could put an idea into this contraption called my brain and I could manipulate it through the things I knew and then formulate new thoughts. Amazing.
I was five or six and I was instantly terrified of the power i had. Perhaps driven by survival instinct, my amazing brain instantly started telling me stories. Scary stories, and over the next couple years I spent many waking hours in a living nightmare. My mind told me that this whole world was a big experiment by some mad scientist and I was the specimen in the petri dish. I believed that you were all computers and when I was not in the room you were watching me. If anyone found out I knew about the power of my brain, or "the experiment" I would be killed. I didn't know where I could tell the truth and often hid in my tiny closet and wrote notes on tiny pieces of paper. I remember once writing, "I hate my dad" and then freaking out because I did not know what to do with the piece of paper.
Somehow I outgrew that fear. My brain continued to serve in in what it determined to be my greatest good. Over the years, my brain was effective at presenting information in such a way that truth was mutable--I could find the energy and story to make me always the right guy, in the right place, at the right time. On the inside, my brain built protections around things that were better unexposed. I had a complex system of when, where, why, and what to share. My secrets still stayed in little closets on little pieces of paper,somewhere deep in the confines of my brain.
I started to accrue defining words. Activist. Teacher. Vegetarian.At some point in my life I got what I thought was an important job--I was responsible for 40 staff, had a million dollar budget, executive director, yadda yadda. It is humbling to admit, but if I had a nickel for every time I said "40 staff," "executive director," or "million dollar budget," I could buy a pretty flashy car. The complicated part is that I was really good at what I did. I was even aware and mindful of ego and humility.
Last summer, I suffered a traumatic brain injury. I lost words, memories, skills, and did not work for nearly three months. I lived with the fear and the possibility of losing basic marking points of me that I thought defined me. I feared that i might stare at walls for the rest of my life. I also spend an equal amount of time feeling how I was the same, whole me despite my short wired brain. I realized the farce in everything I'd been defining as Colleen. Colleen was the gooey mud at the center of me. And that Colleen was always there, unchanged. In high or low places, fat, skinny, crawling on the ground, or backstage with rockstars. There I was, unchanged. It took the TBI to recognize that I had defined myself by the things I had done. I realized it is easier to talk about the concrete things that are the substance of me than it is to simply appreciate the mud.
In order for me to fully embody my truth, I gotta sweep out these old closets and properly dispose of the little notes, the secrets so full of shame that they had no where to go. I've been carrying them too long.
And still today, my brain goes right into stories. . .As I write this post--my brain prods--people are going to jump to the conclusion that I am insane; what if this confirms what they have always thought? Shouldn't I protect myself from the inevitable judgement? Is this safe? How will exposure of truth harm me?
And then I soothe myself with the reminder that I know that I am okay. Staying present, and holding on to what matters to me is going to carry me. Hiding myself hurts me more than anyone else. Besides, if this ends up an insane rant clearly coming from someone who needs med adjustments--I got people that I trust to point it out to me. And as for the rest of you, I offer the saying I have heard a thousand times before, "what you think is none of my business."
I was five or six and I was instantly terrified of the power i had. Perhaps driven by survival instinct, my amazing brain instantly started telling me stories. Scary stories, and over the next couple years I spent many waking hours in a living nightmare. My mind told me that this whole world was a big experiment by some mad scientist and I was the specimen in the petri dish. I believed that you were all computers and when I was not in the room you were watching me. If anyone found out I knew about the power of my brain, or "the experiment" I would be killed. I didn't know where I could tell the truth and often hid in my tiny closet and wrote notes on tiny pieces of paper. I remember once writing, "I hate my dad" and then freaking out because I did not know what to do with the piece of paper.
Somehow I outgrew that fear. My brain continued to serve in in what it determined to be my greatest good. Over the years, my brain was effective at presenting information in such a way that truth was mutable--I could find the energy and story to make me always the right guy, in the right place, at the right time. On the inside, my brain built protections around things that were better unexposed. I had a complex system of when, where, why, and what to share. My secrets still stayed in little closets on little pieces of paper,somewhere deep in the confines of my brain.
I started to accrue defining words. Activist. Teacher. Vegetarian.At some point in my life I got what I thought was an important job--I was responsible for 40 staff, had a million dollar budget, executive director, yadda yadda. It is humbling to admit, but if I had a nickel for every time I said "40 staff," "executive director," or "million dollar budget," I could buy a pretty flashy car. The complicated part is that I was really good at what I did. I was even aware and mindful of ego and humility.
Last summer, I suffered a traumatic brain injury. I lost words, memories, skills, and did not work for nearly three months. I lived with the fear and the possibility of losing basic marking points of me that I thought defined me. I feared that i might stare at walls for the rest of my life. I also spend an equal amount of time feeling how I was the same, whole me despite my short wired brain. I realized the farce in everything I'd been defining as Colleen. Colleen was the gooey mud at the center of me. And that Colleen was always there, unchanged. In high or low places, fat, skinny, crawling on the ground, or backstage with rockstars. There I was, unchanged. It took the TBI to recognize that I had defined myself by the things I had done. I realized it is easier to talk about the concrete things that are the substance of me than it is to simply appreciate the mud.
In order for me to fully embody my truth, I gotta sweep out these old closets and properly dispose of the little notes, the secrets so full of shame that they had no where to go. I've been carrying them too long.
And still today, my brain goes right into stories. . .As I write this post--my brain prods--people are going to jump to the conclusion that I am insane; what if this confirms what they have always thought? Shouldn't I protect myself from the inevitable judgement? Is this safe? How will exposure of truth harm me?
And then I soothe myself with the reminder that I know that I am okay. Staying present, and holding on to what matters to me is going to carry me. Hiding myself hurts me more than anyone else. Besides, if this ends up an insane rant clearly coming from someone who needs med adjustments--I got people that I trust to point it out to me. And as for the rest of you, I offer the saying I have heard a thousand times before, "what you think is none of my business."
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