I don’t even know where this comes from.

This need to follow the rules.

To see guidelines as rules.

My sense making part can figure out many reason why it thinks it came to be.

I see nothing but pain. I see looking back and seeing how heavy it was. How hard it was. How unspectacular it was.

It is my burden. The cross I have to bear.

That sense I have.

That I so often do not trust.

But then so often is right.

That chastices me when it turns out to be right.

Sometimes we write until things shift.

And to think I was worried that after a big emotional process, a deep healing of some wounding, and the nurturing to care for myself in the days that followed, that I then wouldn’t be able to write with emotion again.

Coming to believe that writing with emotion was only reserved for those deep, intense wounds.

And of course, as I got closer, things shut up: I was just scrolling socials for 5 min.

I hear the voice…

I see her. Standing at the window. Looking out. A deep longing in her heart.

Confusion.

Hope.

She doesn’t understand. She doesn’t even know.

I don’t know this until years later.

I don’t really have this memory. This a memory that has been given to me on the journey to understand. To fill in the blanks.

If I run faster, be better, will you love me? Will you look at me like that?

IFS prioritises us speaking for a part not from it.

Maybe this isn’t that. Maybe it is. But I think it’s possible to SOUND like I’m speaking from a part but be speaking for a part.

By making the choice to embody that part. Let it live. Let it say what it has to say then I can hear more from that part.

I will (no longer) force my parts to only speak in the way I determine is appropriate. Because that is just another part that has internalised a belief that there is a right way to do things. That to be valid and to be heard it must conform.

So with that…