“Just cheer up.”

If only it was that easy, right? If only that hollow feeling sitting in the pit of your stomach, the constant bite of tears and the tunnel vision would fade away back into normality. If only the grey would light up with the kiss of Spring. If only you could let it all go.

If only.

The difficulty didn’t lie in the situation itself: although, admittedly, I was drowning in it. It was in that little creature on my shoulder telling me

You’re not even that bad.

You’re being self centred.

Stop making it all about you.

Because I wasn’t THAT bad. I could get out of bed, most days. I could work, most days. I could get out of the front door, most days.

And yet.

The tell tale bruises materialised once again on my thighs. The marks I couldn’t remember leaving but that wouldn’t let me forget. Family ties cut. Friendships scattered.

The pounding thoughts that they would be better off without me.

Nothing ahead. Empty.

 And yet.

I started to find a way back to myself. I found yoga again. I found words.

I let a few back in. Gratefully. They understood. They always do.

The fraudster feeling came back.

All that fuss. All that misery. And for what? 

But I’m starting to understand. I’m starting to form lines between the dots and unpick the story that’s been staying unread all along.

Finding the triggers. Pulling at the roots.

I’ve used the excuse that I’m not bad enough for too long. Told myself that to do address it further than a conversation with a loved one would be nothing short of self absorbed. Punished myself for wallowing when so many had it worse.

And yet.

What is enough? When will I admit that I am enough?

Enough to care for. Enough to protect.

Enough to look after.

13 / 03 / 17. The day I found I was finally ready.


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