Fuck I can be fun.

And funny.

When I let go of the rules I can be so fun. I can do the dance of life. I can be with people.

There once was this little girl who use to write letters to her dad. Letters of love but also trying to express how much he hurt her.  This little girl that tried to think of all the things he wanted and needed so she could do them in advance. She tried to think of the right things to like. The right music to be be into. The right sport to play. The right view and opinions to have. This little girl who spent so much time trying to work out what he was thinking.

I’m still so angry.

Maybe I will be angry for my entire life. Maybe that’s just me.

Maybe I did think that keeping a blog would transform my anger so I wouldn’t feel it. Maybe I wasn’t being honest with myself.

But I see so many others and am so angry.

They get to be so average.

It all got too much so I hid.

And I needed this time to hide out.

To rest, recover and start to unpack a few things at time.

In my own pace.

I was able to uncover a lot. Make sense of a lot.

But those layers are done for now.

The next layers require me to go out there.

Have a purpose.

Have a why.

Have something greater than you.

This is a narrative I’ve been told many times.

That is the solution to life.

It’s a narrative that dates back to ancient times. Probably longer but I don’t know.

But, there is more to it.

What if it’s a part?

I’ve been here before. This was me for a lot of last year.

This intensity is less. Sure.

But we are still back here.

Like a spiral I guess.

Well that’s fucking annoying - how do I get three more spirals up?

Is my trauma traumatic enough?

In a commitment to do trauma-informed work I have been reading a book.

This book has been talking about DID. (Dissociative Identity Disorder)

I forget (have banished from my brain along with all the other diagnoses) that I got this diagnosis back in the day.

I could never reconcile being “functioning” with any of my diagnoses.

We need to no be ready for it.

We need it to hurt on the way through becuase we think that life is like that.

That things just happen.

When we’re not ready.

That we can’t be ready.

That we can’t say wait.

That we can’t say stop.

Things have less meaning when we’re ready. When we want them. When we welcome them.

The part that is angry that it has to ‘play the game’. That it has to do the dance with others.

I feel the hiding coming up.

The, well, I’ll just shrink back.

I notice the Performer sit up. Step forward. It sees the way it needs to carry me through the world.

Hold it together like we have it together. Not that we are feeling this deep, deep pain.

That we crave connection. That we want a hug.

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?

We all have our own signs.

Mine is when I am not in flow. Being in flow doesn’t always mean I am happy. But it does mean am not stuck. Ever so slightly detached. Not quite there and able to experience what is going on.

Either way I feel shackled. Like a prisoner that has chains on my legs, and arms and the two are linked. And there is a guard yelling at me telling me to be happy they didn’t kill me. To be grateful. I’m fed and warm. I should be so lucky. But not of that matters without freedom.

But this is everything I wanted.

I mean I feel better. I’ve been able to get things done and move through the day so much better.

But

I know that things haven’t been addressed. So they will come back again.

It’s like a test.

When they don’t get it right. She has the right to be angry. The right to feel let down. Justifiably upset that the world is a shitty place. Indignant at how shitty others are as humans.

It proves her right.

But I’m also not exactly sure what it’s right about.

I found myself hovering, pausing, bracing this morning.

Not the pausing and bracing from a place of desperate fear. Or shut down. Or overwhelm.

But from a sense of unknowing. Unfamiliarity.

I’m not going to go out of my way to get her in faster. But I will sit here patiently. I will watch as she approaches.

And when she is close enough to hear me I will invite her to sit.

She is welcome.

Although I do much prefer when she comes through the front door - I can see that coming. She scares the bejesus out of me when she comes in the back door.

But she is welcome.

We can sit for a while.

She’s not ready; she not convinced. I tell her I will wait for her, ready to keep reassuring her I’m ok. However long it takes. My love for her is strong.

Is this healing? Is this just a part of me that is in denial? A part that is faking it? Pretending to be.

In some ways it is like what they say healing is.

I guess the only way to know is to pressure test it: have something happen and see how I react. In that I should have an appropriate reaction.