What happens if..

What happens if I just start writing.

No main trailhead. I just start. And see what comes.

Maybe nothing.

I do think this is what my parts worry about when they are worried about being ‘healed’. They are worried about things being bland. Things being boring.

So much of flare is found in my intensity.

And I have a strong shame towards being intense.

Yeah that feels like a burden.

I guess this time could also be a reflection.

Interesting diversion there. Must have hit a sore point in my system.

But today I took a call with someone and ended up buying their services.

I have a habit of buying services I do not want.

I am in awe of other people that can be so forward in getting people to buy things.

The confidence they have. Or maybe more so, the courage they have.

I could do with some of that.

I could do with being clear about what I have to offer and how you can get it from me.

It all still feels so deeply uncomfortable.

I hear the echo of others saying “it’s not meant to not feel uncomfortable, that is not the point”. It will always be like that. And you still do things.

I’ve been noticing all the stories that my parts tell me about why I can’t do what others do.

Trauma. On my own. Know too much. Too intense.

I guess my own advice holds: turn towards, ten breaths.

Ah I could also do with examining this part of me that is obsessed with transformation.

It values it so much. It has envisioned transformation for me for so so so long.

My earliest, clearest memory about the desire for transformation comes from me reading some books around the age of 7? 8? 9? These daughters, each named after a jewel. I was reading them, I do not think there is transformation in the books - maybe they do overcome some kind of challenge. That’s really only context. I am on the bus. I have drifted off from my book, and I am replaying a comment I heard about an older girl from school has gone off, come back to visit and ‘bloomed like a butterfly"‘. The butterfly bit struck me.

I wanted that.

Then there are the many, many hours behind Nana’s couch, between the window, reading about all the weight loss transformation stories.

I wanted that.

And well doesn’t our society celebrate transformation?

Ironically while I have both had this deep desire to transform I have also been stubbornly resistant to transforming. I didn’t want to be see as the girl/woman that transformed from trauma. I just wanted to be seen as good. No pity. No sympathy. Just good at what I did because I was.

It has made me hate, yes big word, but hate, people that have used their trauma for fame.

Where was my award and recognition for consistency?

Well that’s definitely from my childhood too! That theme and anger has been there all through school.

When the other kids were being disruptive and getting attention, no matter how much I hurt. I kept consistent. I kept going.

I still feel that take over my whole body. The fire and heat that roars in my torso but radiates out. That sparks this rage. This desire to fully lose control. To let go.

To not only not care about everyone else for just a split moment, but to inflict pain. To harm. To do damage.

Anger that I carry the burden.

My system seems to be done with this.

TBC.