If you could see me now, you’d see a huge wound with eyes and a beating heart.

A wound with a body around it.

54 years old and only just now recognizing the amount of pain and shame and crap and the tendency to self-harm and self-pity.

There’s so much of it!

In the past, whenever I mentioned my childhood, every therapist I ever talked to told me I sounded so incredibly business-like, so detached, so matter-of-factly.

I wore those remarks like badges of honor.

Look, my parents were totally fucking crazy and all over the place and my early years were incredibly unsafe, but I am fine, SEE?!

I ridiculed what happened, and made fun of it.

But it wasn’t really funny.

It just wasn’t.

I used alcohol to push it to a deeper place.

I smoked pot to tiptoe around it.

I lost myself in spirituality and hoped that would do the trick.

But no amount of joyful Namaste could wash it away, push it out through the backdoor like it never happened.

So here I am, a big wound.

That’s actually very good news I must say.

It means I feel safe enough to see what I didn’t want to see, and, especially, feel what I didn’t want to feel.

The many masks are coming off.

The old sad and confusing stuff is coming up in safe, small, delicate packages.

I cry for 5 seconds, and it’s gone.

Sometimes I know what it’s about, and what happened, sometimes I don’t.

Doesn’t really matter.

I am full of rage, but only for tiny stretches of time.

I smash something, or I just scream, and it’s over.



Layers and layers of smart-ass pretense.

The armor I used to wear so proudly is melting away.

I have never felt so ready to be vulnerable, and it’s liberating.

Of course it is!

The genie is out of the bottle.

It’s an amazing process.

So intricate, so smart, and so logical.

If I look back at the past months, years even, I see how this has come about, how it has been building up, and how I’ve been allowed to dismiss and deny all of this for a very long time.

Until I couldn’t anymore.

The first pile of beliefs crumbled like an old factory, diligently demolished by explosives.

Clean, fast, tidy.

It was like something blew a big hole in the roof, and a light I didn’t know existed, a beautiful soothing light, came through.

The rest followed.

The cleaning of the house.

It still does.

Endless amounts of belief dominoes drop, and old systems, built to keep me safe, finally dissolve.

But I always already was.


I just didn’t know.

The façade is meticulously taken down.

More sadness.

More anger.

More insights.

More authenticity and a deep urge to be real, more real, incredibly real.

It’s like a magical pile of cliches.

Sweet pain, surrender, big breaths.

And so much consideration and respect for what happened (or how I experienced what happened), and how methods and tricks and systems and habits and traits and masks were quickly established.

I WAS a psychological mess, perfectly glossed over, beautifully disguised, and pretty highly functioning and reasonably successful.


You see these tears?

Liquid healing.

(Photo by @antegudelj, for Unsplash)

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