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.

Success by today’s standards isn’t healing.

However that is defined.

Success is about doing the dance.

Playing the part.

Being willing to do it the way that everyone else is doing.

Success isn’t about living in a way that is best for your system.

Success is about having your parts conform to the system.

Some of us choose to rebel against the system.

Gone and out of the house,

The feelings I would be feeling,

But trying to hide.

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 think yes.

Because I committed to doing this daily.

But I am tired.

And having been to the gym my body is doing that thing where it gets sick.

It annoys me a lot.

Sleep is what I need.

But this battle. This fear.

That my body will always get in the way of success.

That even if my psyche isn’t broken after all then my body it.

That there will always be something holding me back.

Back from what?

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?

People just leave you behind if you’re not ready.

I don’t see one stand out moment.

I see a compilation. They all blur into one.

That if I wasn’t ready. They just went on.

As within, so without.

I am not getting to my goals because I am spread too thin.

I do need to focus.

I do need to narrow in.

No see that is what I don’t like.

I don’t want to narrow.

I still want to be open and expansive.

But letting go.

Yes, that I can do.

I didn’t do my homework.

It seemed so doable.

I mean I am the one who decides what to do.

I set my own homework.

And yet I will not do my own homework.

She looked back at me.

That glance over her should.

I was shocked. She doesn’t normally even acknowledge my existence.

Anger wasn’t allowed for me growing up.

Unless it was about injustice.

Fight for justice. Fight for what is right.

But angry at you?

Angry at how things had gone?

Nope. None of that was allowed.

What did I have to be angry about?

Is there always something?

I made the commitment to write and be in touch with my parts for 30 days.

I haven’t done it.

I still only turn to this when the feelings are running hot. When the intensity is turned up on high.

It’s a valid strategy for me. It works.

And it goes against the wisdom - that we should only connect when there is a desire to

OMG THIS CAN FUCK RIGHT OFF

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.

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.

I've carried so much shame for all the things I don't finish in my life.

I’ve finished so many things because I was so ashamed of not finishing them.

I’ve judged others for not finishing things.

Placing myself on a high horse. Up high. Safely away from from those not good enough to finish things.

But you know what?

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…