These are the the kind of things that will ignite my soul–if you care about these types of things.

My mom’s favorite attribute of me is my loyalty. She says it’s unwavering, fierce, and swallows one hole. She outlines differences between my brothers and I by telling of a situation where I walk into the room and search until I find her first before addressing anyone else. My brothers tend to go through everyone else until they finally make it to her, last. I like this story a lot, but I suspect I like it because of the deep desire to be so important to someone else that they see me first; building blocks of how to love.

This theme follows me into many story lines of love, and the literal manifestation of it almost always fails to capture the essence of which my mom speaks. I’ve watched as one I’ve made my world walks into a room full of others and charms the crowd casually keeping an eye out for me. All the while I was at the entrance watching my beloved like a ghost. If I were truly a ghost like the ones from the past that tightly grab on to haunt because any life is better than not living, well then I would have been seen–definitely. But, I am not a ghost and I’m not a crowd. I’m just another person looking to be recognized above all else.

There were times upon falling in love that I avoided rooms all together because this ultimate test in compatibility proved I couldn’t be loved that much. As I get older, I realize it’s not that I am unlovable but rather I have walked into the wrong room–someone else’s.

Monkey Minds were not harmed in this blog post.

My therapist tries so hard to get me to admit that something…anything, really…hurts. I, of course, opt for closed-off buzz words like ‘annoyed’ and ‘disappointed.’ Those words that seem to ring with strength over weakness. She prods for my recognition of hurt as a feeling week-after-week, as I squirm in the uncomfortable lobby-like chair. Humanity’s friend, avoidance, kicks in but instead riddles me with trivial obsessive thoughts which is what brought me there in the first place. There, the sterile room with the only identifying element being the faux Van Gogh’s hanging on the wall. Her chair, the one I sit in, is uncomfortable and entirely impersonal…am I like her chair?

This monkey mind of mine has stuck around much longer than usual, and my true self stands outside the atrium knocking on the glass. I see you, I do, but I’m busy swinging from branch-to-branch. After all, it’s much more fun to climb trees than to fall to the ground.

The two women that know me best – my mom and wife – tell me frequently that I put more energy into those that don’t deserve it versus those that do. I wish I could say this wasn’t true, but it is and I know it. I suppose there are those times in life when you know exactly who you are, and insight and intuition are shining lights. Then there are times when you have to really work to see any light, and that’s when you change the batteries in the flashlight. It is then when words like ‘hurt’ lurk like a monster in the dark. I’ve never been scared of the dark, but after standing too close to monsters I do search for that flashlight.

It’s like REM sings, “Everybody Hurts Sometimes” and if I think about it…’hurt’ does sound more impactful, doesn’t it?

From The Archives: This Weight Is A Gift

Bruises on my hands from being held so tight I must have thought I was losing myself.  Marching around so confident but I’m just a scared little girl looking to be saved just like the others I know that parade around wearing their insecurity on their sleeve.  Waking up alone and naked to stare at my ceiling for an hour before my day begins and I reflect on my rapid ups and downs wondering who will peek through my window of duality.   My phone call log looks more like a manic punch line rather than hospitable hellos. Another morning of fearing that my tongue misbehaved and hoping my words collapse without a ripple.  Worrying starts to hurt.

Disappointment weaves my soul and leaves only a few crucial moments to prevent the darkness of my storm cloud but my masochist wind breaks open my veins releasing my solace in disease.  It’s my cycle and I peddle faster down hill because eventually the momentum will fade and I don’t even know how to coast but I envy those that can enjoy the breeze.

My chest hurts, my liver hurts, my lungs hurt, my heart must hurt and when expressing doesn’t carry much weight and treading lightly becomes too difficult I suppose we all lose our charm.  Maybe we’re all held back by something.  Life gets tiring, love gets harder, innocence gets taken or lost along the way, purpose gets misplaced, people come and go, and sometimes my words tend to get stuck between my lips, but I know what I know; no one stole my soul.

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