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If I’m honest, there is a lot I haven’t told about yet because it feels like I can’t tell about it.  I wonder all the many wonders of this world.  Will I be believed? But even more,  what will happen if I open this up into my consciousness?  Will I be able to accept it myself?  What will happen if this “thing” I am keeping in the dark becomes exposed and everybody sees it, especially me?  Am I grounded enough?  Can I handle this?

At this point in my life I am moving on from so much in my past, but certain things are like tar and never really wear off.  Even when it looks like it is off, the residue remains and invisible damage is done to the under-surface that makes it more vulnerable than the untouched spots.  I don’t really know that much about tar, but I know a lot about being hurt so if I’m wrong about the effect tar has on what it touches I’m pretty sure I can personally attest to tar on the brain…and the heart.  It does not belong there.  It can neither get there or be removed without some kind of process.

I don’t know if I can find the words to stop speaking in weak and distant metaphors.  I can speak in “as ifs” but not in “as it was/is”.  I’ve come through some exceptionally bad times.  Bad things.  Things that have altered every cell of my being.  I have feelings about this, but I keep them contained out of fear….fear like terror.  And the mere containment of it changes my chemistry too.  I am not free.

I want freedom.  I want to have the freedom to speak.  The freedom to speak, to breathe.  I am holding my breath.  I do not have life, at least not my life.  My energy swirls wildly within me and rips me apart.  On the outside there is chronic pain, but the pain on the inside eats me alive.  It’s no mystery to me why inflammation governs me.  I laugh and I play, and sometimes the inflammation abates…but only to grow stronger.  Always stronger on the comeback.

Where will I put my story?  In therapy?  With my friends?  Handed to my husband?  Will my children inherit  it on silent pieces of paper when I pass on?


Who will listen?  Will nobody listen?  Who will care?


And I will tell enough people until enough people care and the bits of me can begin to let go.

I was not born for nothing.

I can make art and bake cakes and sit in silence and meditate.  I can fill my soul with happy thoughts and no thoughts at all…but my soul will not quit screaming.

I will not stop.  Why?

Because I choose to not stop.


Because I didn’t deserve what I got.  I didn’t deserve the irreparable damage.

And I’ve got all these questions and thoughts that swirl and swirl and swirl in the tornado of my life and one day I’ll die.  And I will not die for nothing.

Because I’m human.  Because I feel.

Because my soul was skinned from my flesh…AND I DID NOT SAY IT WAS OK.