It’s been at least a couple of years since I have written anything very meaningful. It’s not that I forgot to. This has been active resistance. I’ve had so much to say, but told myself many stories of why I couldn’t. Why I shouldn’t. That I would hurt people. That I might hurt myself by unzipping my head and my heart.
I used to write in a controlled way. I wrote good things that helped me and others. I shared of myself often but it was managed vulnerability. I don’t want to do that anymore but have spent three years living inside my head with too many words. Peter has heard the loops.
I have never felt more consciously angry than I have these past few years, but never more joyful either.
I have rarely felt more scared at some junctures, though never more safe, truly loved, and “at home”.
I’ve purposefully been more vulnerable than I have ever been inside the intimacy of my relationship with Peter but have also withheld more of myself, on purpose, as a new boundary in all kinds of circumstances.
I have traded ‘going along to get along’ which has brought me some freedom but mostly guilt, as I experiment with new ways of being.
I’ve despaired more and never felt more hopeful.
I’ve never been more myself.
Gradually, I am dropping some of the masks that I have worn like permanent make up, Some of the masks were so merged with me I couldn’t even see them.
This process has been:
Uncertain. Exhausting. Guilt-ridden. Angering. Fearful.
Connecting. Joyful. Freeing. Hopeful. Enlivening. Creative.
I am likely in the messy middle. It might last for years, or until death-do-me-part? But I won’t trade it for the world.