This is difficult to write.

Not so long ago, I was fervently writing honest essays, poems, and expressions of thought. The words seemed to flow out of me as I bared my all to paper, to internet, to strangers, to family and friends.

This barrier I seem to have now was not there.

This barrier is a filter. A filter that I know is pressed upon me by my fears. By culture and society at large. By the fallacies of the opinions of others and the eagerness to remain stable, unshaken, and not seen as reckless. By what makes others comfortable or unshaken.

Well, sorta kinda fuck that.

I want to write. I want this to be difficult. I want my words to have punch, meaning, impact, worth. I want to take experience and turn it onto the page, sprinkling peppered meaning haphazardly with purpose. 

This week I learned an ex boyfriend was arrested for sexual assault.

His mugshot is looming in my mind, following me throughout my week. Somehow after so much time and space between us,  he’s wriggled his way back into my headspace. And all over again, I felt everything that I had set aside in the box labelled “him.” I am feeling everything in that box. As though it fell from the top shelf in my closet and hit me right over the head, contents spilling every which way and I had no other choice than to bend over to pick them up, one at a time.

I had forgotten how to love myself when I was with him. I had allowed the ugliness of his need for control to soothe my ache for connection. I had lost sight of the spiritual splendor of my being and wrapped myself into his narcissism. I had let the moments of passion or goodness override the moments of hurt, sadness, and even fright. But no shared cup of coffee or surprise note with my favorite chocolate or a cheer at my workout or running event is ever enough to cover those moments.

These moments that now string together in my heart, soured over time in a way that radiates through the splendor of my being and attempts to leak into the crevasses I have so gently paid attention to these last few years.

So yes, it’s difficult to write because in a sense I am reliving the past. And I am continuing to heal me in the process. I am not afraid of my feelings. I know they are there to support me, help me. I know that I am not my feelings, that they cannot consume me in ways I had allowed them to in the past.

If you see me this week — or anyone, absolutely ANYONE for that matter– please be sure to show a little extra kindness. There are tender moments happening underneath the surface for all of us, in so many different ways.

Continuing to move forward, I recognize now that I deserve love and that I AM love. No other person can ever take that away from me. Never again.

Much love. Much hope.

Barbara