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. Life and Lotus .


“I am blooming from the wound where I once bled.” – Rune Lazuli

Holy Emotional Flashback Batman!

 When things like this come up in your memory feed two things can happen. It will either cause reflection, or, it will cause a crippling domino effect. For me, reflection is deep today.  If you had met me five years ago, when this screenshot was taken, you would have found the crippling, devastating effect.  I was still being triggered daily by the abuse. In that dark, murky mud, I never thought I’d come out healthy. I never thought I’d be able to bloom. No mud, no lotus. 

I have seen jewelry with the quote, “No mud, no lotus.” I never fully understood it. I knew the gist of it, the organic earthen side. The lotus doesn’t grow like most plants, dirt, water, sun, air. The lotus grows deeply rooted in murk and mud. It is surrounded by bugs, pests, fish, algae, and a deep, dark, dankness. Sometime around my 40th birthday (three years ago) a light went on and I fully recognized the correlation between life and lotus.

“The lotus flower blooms most beautifully from the deepest and thickest mud.” – Buddhist Proverb

The lotus gained its symbolism because its life begins deeply rooted that mucky, muddy pond. Even though it begins in mud, as it blooms, each individual petal is unblemished, unscarred from the the mire below. The lotus represents growing through adversity, trials, tribulations, and conflicts. The lotus represents the strength it takes to bloom in spite of, and when it blooms the beauty she shares with the world is indescribable. 

“A blessed state in which the individual transcends desire and suffering and attains Nirvana” – Buddhist Proverb

The word karma is from Sanskrit, where, fittingly, it refers to one’s work as well as one’s fate.  I could have very well ended up the murk and mud, being pulled under into the sludge. I could have listened to the horrible things that were said to me during the time of abuse. I could have believed the truth of my worth is held hostage in the echoing of those words. I just could not connect to who I was anymore, as I could only see myself through his eyes. “Toad”, “Worthless”, “It’s like putting makeup on a pig”, “Unwanted”, and so many more.

I was determined to overcome. I was determined to do the work and push my authentic self through his sludgy marsh. I was not his words. I was not his abuse. In that moment, five years ago, I was weakened by his constant attempts to suffocate me through social media and stalking. I wanted to wipe away anything and everything that defined me; my poetry, my artwork, my photography…. Me.

I am the lotus.

“My imperfections and failures are as much a blessing from God as my successes and my talents, and I lay them both at His feet. – Gandhi

In the five years since, I have worked hard on me; every single aspect of me. I am not perfect, but I am accepting of my flaws. I no longer reside in the suffering. I have moments where wounds reopen, but they do not overpower me. These wounds are areas seen that need additional healing. I ask myself, “What was the trigger?” and “What would be the best way to work through this?” I take the blood from my wounds and and form a new petal.  

I am the lotus.

Now, as I sit and reflect on that moment and move into mindfulness, I am amazed and proud of myself.
I have an amazing job.
I have a great little studio apartment, with relaxing Zen garden.
I have successfully purchased my own car.
My pugs are happy.
I am genuinely happy.

I am the lotus.

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A day of steady.. blows to the gut.


Shit I work out in counseling – Although it’s not really worked out it, it’s just floated to the surface.

I never really realized how .. mean I am to myself until a friend said something the other day about western state. Aparently during the hike, I was beating myself up under my breath. I mean, I know I am in my mind. I never realized how vocal I am about it. I thought it was primarily in my mind.
But I catch my mom doing it.
“I’m such a dumb ass”
“What a fucking idiot”

And then I noticed … I do it too. “Come on fat ass.”…”cow” fat ass” toad” dumbass” ugly nasty cow”.

The truth behind all the fat / body positive posts is that I’m hiding behind that.

I would love to be substantially thinner; 180 ish.
I flood my page and my eyes/mind with images that it’s okay to be a fat girl; because that’s all I am.

But, I hate it. I hate not having energy. I hate being short of breath because of my sarcoid AND my weight. The two combined are killing me.

I would love to be able to wear clothes that I find adorable, unfortunately they stop at size 22.

I hide behind it, because I’m trying to convince myself I’m okay.

I’m talking this out with a friend. She says to me, “What would YOU tell you? If all those “tapes” disappeared, what would you really say to you?”

Truth be told. If I memory banks were magically wiped, I would be reverted to a child like state. I would have no clue how to positively encourage myself. I have never had that.I have never, in my life, been reinforced. Or taught how to reinforce confidence myself. 

That’s a sad, sad thought. 

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Put it in your dream journal, you freaking hippie.

Today, has been the one year anniversary of my fleeing my abusive situation. One year. One year should be enough to toughen up, pull on my big girl panties and move forward. It has not been that simple. I am sure it would have been more simple if I hadn’t side tracked myself into believing I was ready for love again.
Michael, was a deceiver.. he was a liar in the purest sheep’s clothing. He led me to believe I was in a safe place to fully open and begin healing. He encouraged me to open, flourish heal. In a lot of ways he damaged me more than my batterer did. He took what was left of my trust, my faith, my ability to stand up and heal myself. And I allowed him to do it.
I need to get up off of this couch. I need to get a move on again. I am crippling my own damned self by this personal talk of ‘no good’, ‘no worth’ and all the other horrible things I say while sitting here slowly disabling myself.
I have fallen hard a few times these last few years, and even though I have gotten up each and every time, I have found it has been getting harder to do so. This last plummeting event has proven so. But you know what, I’m up. I may not be fully functioning, but I am up. I have risen. I have risen in my own way, in my own due time, but alas, I am standing.
I need to embrace my weird. I need to marry all my differences into one amazing being. I’m an odd duck, I know this. So I need to stop trying to conform and fit into some idea of what I “should” be and accept who I actually am. I’m hiding behind fear (so, so much fear) and I need to get up, this one last time, stay up and own who I am. I have written about this numerous times. I know this. I believe this on a intellectual level, I know this. It’s getting the rest of me to pull the line.
I queried a few of my friends to find out what they think of me, who they “see” me as:
* retrobilly
* rockabilly
* retro
* eclectic
* ghosts
* geek
* hippie (my son calls me hippie all the time)
This really is what is thought of me. I have convinced myself that they see ‘fat’, ‘pathetic’, ‘poseur’ … Nope. This is all my own crippling thoughts enabling my decline. Well, no more.
So, I need to get up and get dressed. Make an effort to embrace who I am. (of course, with all this said and done, tomorrow may be a very different view point.)
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Bare Bones

I had a conversation with someone this morning in regards to domestic violence, getting out and finding myself again. I am literally bare bones. I am stripped down to nothing trying to rebuild, and I have no clue where to start. A few things were said that really triggered me, and I felt I needed to write a blog to work through what it was exactly triggered me.
She said to me, “You need to find you…. and where you want to fit in your own life.”
After she had written this to me, I broke down and cried. Since she said it, I have been crying periodically. This took place about noon; it is now 8:32pm.
I cried because of the reality in which her words stung. I don’t even know where I fit in my own life anymore. I cried because I didn’t know how to respond. I cried at how exposed and raw I feel. Through sinew and marrow. Through cells and bile. Through surface and core. Raw, bare bones. 
I know, I know, I know. I’ve read all of the quotes. I’ve listened and heard all of the motivational comments from friends. I’ve processed it. I sit here daily, on my couch, without motivation to do anything… without motivation to even care to do anything. I have big ideas in my head of things I want to do. Things I dream of achieving. But I sit. Daily. Not caring.

So here I am, open and available, and all I can motivate myself to do is sleep. I am nearing my one year anniversary of getting out of the abusive relationship, but the abuse hasn’t stopped. I’m more abusive towards myself. I can’t flee myself. 

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Heavy Heart

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I write this with weariness, a bit of trepidation and an incredibly heavy heart. I know full well that if it were seen by the individual it is written about, a whole whirlwind of anger, abusive language and flurry of drunk emails and texts will begin.
I have not talk to this individual in a couple years. I could not handle her drunken raging. Through counseling, I came to a point where I was strong enough to say “no more” with her. My last interaction with her was 11/9/2011. You can read about it in a previous blog entry: Sisters, Sisters.
I just wish my mother could do the same. She’s so accustomed to not seeing abuse for what it is, and she has such high hopes that one day all of her children will be able to come together and reunite, that she cannot walk away from the tirades she’s put through nightly.  (Literally, nightly.)
I have always wanted a tight relationship with my sister. It was never going to happen. If you talk to her, she will tell you I’m crazy. She will bash me and bad mouth me. She will try to play  sympathy card and rally her troops against me. She will tell you that I am jealous of her. Truth be told, I am not. Maybe in my younger years I was, but I’ve grown far too old to care about petty things like body size and looks. All in all, attitude and demeanor show more about a person’s character than what you adorn on the outside.
The abuse has not stopped. When I hit my ultimate low, I called my mom and asked to come home. I asked for help. I asked for my mom. This is my business, with my life and I asked for my mom’s help. Why?? Because I recognize a woman in need of assistance. I am suicidal. I am very depressed. I, in a sense, am “crazy” if you want to put that label on me. The difference is, I recognize this. I acknowledge this and I can no longer hide or live my life in a manner that is hurtful for my soul and spirit.
When my sister found out I had moved home, she blew up my mom’s text… “Is she finally going to get the help she needs? Or is she just being moody because she was broken up with?” My sister has always passed judgement on me. (Hell, not just me, but anyone she comes across that does not benefit or suit her needs; our mother included.) She cannot handle the fact that she has no control over my life, or can use her methods to influence, hurt or bully me anymore. I cut that out November 2011.
What she doesn’t see is that she is hurting our mother.. each and every derogatory text she sends, she crushes our mother’s spirit more and more. It is abuse. I’ve spent enough time in domestic violence classes, group counseling and individual therapy to know that this is abuse. My mom says to me all the time, “It’s so nice to have you home. At least we have conversations and you don’t lecture me nightly.” I hate seeing her like this. I hate seeing my mom hang her head, take the abuse and cry quietly to herself. I hate that she’s so accustomed to the abuse, she just “All well, she’s just drunk again.” I hate that she has expressed to my sister, “Please, stop. Just stop texting me like this.” and she is totally, completely ignored.
She has bashed me. SHe has bashed my mom. She has turned to other family to play victim. I have not talked to, written, or paid attention to my sister since 2011; there’s a reason for it. I don’t care what she says about me, or to whom. I do care about the emotional and physical toll it’s taking on our mother. It literally hurts me to see my mom’s heart aching as much as it is. My sister’s a drunk, she always will be. She’ll end up drinking herself to death like her father did. She’s her own burden to bare. But she needs to back off of mom. Mom is too old, too fragile to continue putting up a good face for it all.
I don’t hate her. I don’t wish ill will on her. I simply do not want her in my life. If she can, just for one moment, think if someone other than herself,  my “christmas wish” is that she backs off mom and leaves her be. Please. Have some compassion for our mom.
And to answer her question, yep.. I was “moody because I was broken up with.” Am I, “finally getting help?” Yep. I have been since January 21, 2014 when I left my abusive relationship. I am a little crazy. I am a lot depressed; which isn’t a “moody side effect of being broken up with.” I am a human with chaos inside of me. I am a woman with fluctuating hormones due to a hysterectomy and now failing ovaries. I am emotional. I am me. However, I see your query and raise you, “Are you sober yet? Are you getting the help you need?” (maybe that was a bit snarky, but, I feel I need some clarification and redemption. I am just trying to live my life the best of my capabilities; sans alcohol, drugs or lies.)
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Inside out

anxiety-cycle

I am going to do my best to describe exactly what is going on in and out of my body right now. Anxiety and depression are a silent killer. I don’t care what people say, I am slowly dying. I’ve been calling it my slow and silent suicide. It all began the moment I stepped out of the shower this morning.
I had an appointment at the local DSHS office today to assess for disability and medical coverage. I hadn’t even gotten out of my car yet, and the sweating started. I open the doors and enter the facility, the shaking starts. I’m nauseated, dizzy and panicky feeling. I feel like I need to run away. I’m sitting there in a wave of people, loud kids, trying really hard not to lose my insides all over the lobby. I literally feel like I’m exploding from the inside out.
I’m called up to the counter, I can’t even state my name. I’m in such an anxiety ridden body that I’m talking too quietly. In my head the voices are telling me, “everyone’s listening”… “everyone knows your business.” This alone causes more shakes. I begun to wring my hands together, rubbing the corners of my thumb cuticles raw.
I get through the interview, get back to my car and immediately break down. I’m cry like a frightened child. I cried the whole 14 miles back home. I entered home, immediately enter the bathroom and puke.
This… this is not living.
This… is not quality of life.
This… is a portion of who I used to be.
All the while, the other half of my mind’s voices are telling me, “This is not who you are. Get over it. Buck up and learn to live again. Get out of this funk.”
I am literally split. I’m black and I’m white. I’m yin and yang. It’s too intense for me. What the hell is wrong with me. I miss who I was before meeting the abuser. I miss that life. I miss the job, the friends, the social. I hate this. I hate me. I hate this life now.
I’m exhausted.
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“Internet Prey”

Internet DatingIn my last post, I had mentioned some comments my aunt said about men, dating, love and more. One of her comments stayed with me., so much so I couldn’t figure out how or why I felt the previous blog was unfinished. I’ve let it marinate on the tip of my mind, formulate through my fingers, and now I am ready to write and process through it. 
The comment that she said, that has stuck with me since she said it, was, ” The guys you meet on the internet are predators nothing more. They prey on women who have low self esteems and then manipulate you and hurt you. They simply aren’t worth it.”
Really? Just men on the internet? Sure, I can guarantee that there are cretins on the internet. Hell, I’ve met a few. But, all men on the internet are predators? I am really bothered by this generalization. I have met a substantial amount of incredible, giving, loving people from the internet; men and women alike. I guess the biggest reason this bothers me is because… she’s a victim; as my mother, and as myself. 
She was preyed upon by men (multiple men) she met through work, life, friends. She has had an abnormal amount of abusive men in her life. But, she never met one of them off the internet; not a single one. Same goes with my mother. Same goes with me. I have had four (five if you count this last one that lasted all of four months) influential, soul developing sexual/love relationships in my life.
My first unsavory relationship I met through friends. I was 18, fresh out on my own and met this guy who turned into an abusive, mean spirited, mouthy s.o.b. My second, my son’s father, ended up being a lying drug addict. Although he didn’t abuse me in any sense, he still was a ‘winner’. I also met him through a friend. My third, my one and only marriage so far, was domineering, money controlling, controlling and emotionally abusive. I met him in in junior high, through a friend. My fourth imperative relationship I met on the internet. He’s the subject of massive abuse that I’ve written about on my blog. 
My fifth, if you want to count him, was not abusive, in any way, shape or form. He loved me fully, and with the best of his abilities. I was the broken one by that point. I was the one too distraught and depressed to be anything viable. I met him on the internet. 
The only reason I’m going down my list of ‘men’ in my life is to show that men who prey, prey regardless of their platform. Women who become victims, do so no matter there station in life; no matter their path, no matter their socioeconomic status, no matter period. For my aunt to be so judgmental of the method in which a person finds love is so wrong. Love will happen. Hurt will happen. Abuse, will happen too. 
A victim needs to learn what aspects about themselves that makes them an easy targets for abusers in order to change their path so they do not become victims again.
I understand she’s about 25+ years my senior. I understand her life has brought her hell, that she’s carried as a burden upon her back like a mule carrying passengers. I get that she’s been hurt as well. But, I kindly ask her to let me live learn on my own; just as she has. 
This does not mean that I am looking for love again; not  now, not in the near future, not at all. But, I refuse to kill what small glimmer of hope that love does exist inside of me. Isn’t this what love is about? Isn’t this what life is about? Trying, trying and trying again?
It doesn’t have to be about love and relationships alone. Try life. Try friendship. Try trust. Try hope. 
Just try. It’s all we have. To be there for ourselves. To be there for others. To fill our lives with what makes us smile, feel alive, feel happiness. No one has the right to demean or belittle another’s process. No one, no matter how hurt or bruised their soul is, has a right to convince another to give up. 
We all hurt. We all have been shattered, broken and thrown out. We have all cried out for help. We are all alike.

Live and let live.

Abuse · Batterer · Counseling · Faith · Fear · Happiness · Healing · Health · Hope · My Life · Self Acceptance · Self Esteem · Self Love · Spirit · Suicide

Suffocating isolation.

This life, it hurts. It hurts on a memory level, to a cellular level, to a joint and body level. This life given to me, hurts every single day I get up. I ache all the time. My body aches, literally. My joints feel like they are rubbing one another raw. My stomach is constantly in a panic, painful mode. My intestinal tract is reactive and angry. . . every other day. I have heartburn from morning until night. But that’s just the physical side.

I have headaches. I have bad dreams, when I sleep. For the most part I don’t sleep. I can’t fall asleep and when I do I wake up an hour later. I blame the dogs, “They had to go pee.” But in reality, it’s me. . . all me. I’m flinchy, jumpy and sad all the time. I cry for no reason, at everything. But mainly, I cry over what my demons tell me over and over again. Believe it or not, the mental side of it is just as painful as a physical side. The exhaustion from fighting alone is worse than the ruins of an exhausted war torn town.

The pain is often called depression. Doctors, family, friends and specialists all have labeled as clinical depression, depression, and in my case “situational depression”.  Catch phrases are tossed around like popcorn seeds in a air popper; “PTSD”, “Hyper-vigilance”, “Fight or Flight”. 

But for me, it’s pain. I hate this life. I hate what’s been “gifted” to me. If this is truly a gift, it’s the worst gag gift given. I get so caught up on the injustices from my youth, teen and early adult years that I have conditioned myself in remaining there. I don’t know how to be fully present with the me today.  At this point.. I don’t even know if I can or want to be ‘fully present’. Why? It’s so foreign, and I’m too old, to try to relearn life.

I try, I really do. I flood my facebook page with thoughts, quotes, and pictures of inspirational quotes and memes. I read articles, daily, from places like Om Times and Tiny Buddha. I try to take it in, process it and figure out how to manifest the “good” in me. My significant other says he can see it in me, he can see my “core” and he knows “the real me” is in there. I’m afraid she’s a serious lost cause, this “me” inside of me. I’ve lived the life of severe, dark depression for so long, that even if she is in there, she’s being totally and completely suffocated out. 

I have hope (maybe it’s stupidity, but I’d like to consider it hope) that she really is in there. I can’t keep destroying his life because of my mental illness. I can’ t keep allowing my breakdowns to govern his emotions too. It’s unfair. He truly deserves a woman who is more present, calm, happy and there for him when he needs it.  I’m a stupid naive woman if I thought I was even remotely ready to be in a relationship.

I’m far too broken. At 38yrs old, my broken edges have rubbed down to a poetic smoothness that can no longer be reunited with one another. My broken edges no longer fit like a puzzle piece, sharp corners meeting sharper corners. Maybe if someone stepped in when I was a teenager, or preteen, things would have been different. But this, this is who I am. 

My world is very black and white. There are no shades of gray. This is comfort to me now. This is where I reside. I don’t know how to stop fighting it, break free from it and get healthy. I just don’t know anymore. 

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Accept Love.

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Three very important things, somewhat cathartic incidents happened tomorrow. (I originally meant to write, “Two very important, somewhat cathartic, incidents happened yesterday.” But accidentally typed tomorrow. As if it was some kind of prophetic psychic slip. Ironically, three important things did happen “tomorrow” which was yesterday. So, I left it as I typed it.)

Three things summed up:
Accept Love.
Illusions.
The Dash.

I haven’t talked to my mother in years. I cut her out of my life, due to her negativity, two years ago. We have taken steps to reconnect again. This reacquainting comes with a lot of fear, worry and panic. We have done this dance before. We have worked through this very thing. We have discussed and forgiven. But the anger always comes up again. Always. I’m trying to work through the fear of unknown. The fear of anticipation that this is going to happen again. We talked about relationships, domestic violence, and love. After the end of our conversations, the phone had been disconnected, I was sitting on the porch processing actually holding a conversation with my mother. A text came through breaking my thoughts.
Accept Love.

Two words. Two powerful, impacting words. From my mother. The very one who fought the love process her whole life. The very one who set me up for failure in accepting love openly, unconditionally… accepting. To be honest, I’m still trying to process through this. I have no clue how to openly and earnestly accept love. If those two words did anything, they educated me on my inadequacies in this regard.

Illusions. The new love in my life has been reading a book to me whenever we have down time, prior to bed, etc. “Illusions” by Richard Bach. There were two quotes that kicked me in the stomach. I’m going to share in this moment is,
“If you argue for your limitations they are yours.”

My inability to put down my torch of anger, fear, panic, and worry… my “limitations” keep them leashed to me. I argue in defense, their defense, my defense. I argue. I defend their right to be apart of me. I was an abused child, unwanted and unloved. I grew into a lonely, depressed woman who has a hard time accepting love, internalizing it and allowing it to flow freely.

“There is no such thing as a problem without a gift for you in its hands. You seek problems because you need their gifts.”
This one, I’m still conflicted over. This one I’m still processing. But it has hit me, really hard.

Finally, “The Dash.” I watched a movie with my guy and his family. It’s called, “The Angriest Man in Brooklyn.” It was Robin Williams’ last movie. An angry man, embittered towards life. He finds out he has a very short time to live due to a brain aneurysm and proceeds to head out to correct his relationships. Quotes… that struck me

“Anger is the only thing they left me. Anger is my refuge, it’s my shield. Anger is my birthright!”

“It’s not the dates that matter, it’s the dash between them” In discussing dates on his tombstone, he says this.”

All of this compiled together, I am not the healthiest person mentally. I don’t know if I am too far gone to rectify and live the life “The Dash” implies. Happy. Unafraid. Genuine. Sincere. Happy. 

I’m afraid I’ll forever live a life where I’m sabotaging myself and my happiness. I am tired. This war with myself is exhausting. From my cellular level to my surface, I’m exhausted. I just don’t know how to put those torches down. I don’t know how to let go. Everyone says, “Let Go.” But no one, ever, tells me how to. 

How does this all play into my new relationship? I am not equipt with the ability to be present, fully for him in his time of needs. If he comes to me with a concern, a problem, something that has triggered him emotionally… I can’t let go of my pain to be fully present for him. This was brought to my attention last night. 

This will be our demise, I’m sure of it. My inability to love unconditionally, love fully, and accept love unconditionally. I’m a hostage to my problems. I am being held hostage by my perceived limitations, my inadequacies. I’m afraid I will never be the woman he needs, in his time of needs, because of my baggage and shit.

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So much processing, not enough data.

quotes-july4
Let me preface this entry by saying it has literally taken me a week to write it. I apologize in advance for the length. If you actually read through the entirety of it, thank you!
I am unsure how to process and implement my thoughts into a blog.  I know it’s more profound than these simple words can convey.

“Can I tell you an observation I made about you?” He asked me while we were driving. “Sure..” I said with a hesitancy that encamped my face like a mask; lip chewing, wide eyed, …bracing self for the worst. His hand was on my knee, my arms were across my chest like fleshy armor that could deflect anything my mind preempts him saying. 

“Your whole life you’ve only experienced conditional love. All the love you’ve received has come with a cost, or a price, … a condition.” He began, I loosened my grip I had around myself. “Those who were supposed to love you the most, never showed you what unconditional love is. Your mom, the one who is supposed to be that teacher, never taught you what it means.” He’s right, you know. He’s right in every way. We had this discussion after an even bigger discussion about some of the wounded memories I have from my childhood. 

Last weekend was the first test, if that’s what you want to call it, of “us”. I had a very rough emotional time last due to things involving my batterer; past battles resurrecting trying to sabotage my happiness. This is their routine, see. I am all familiar with the sabotage and mutiny that takes place inside me. My head, heart and soul are in constant battle. It essentially was the first time he has seen me fighting my demons, in a true battle; one that devastated and crippled me.

My cycle of abuse with the batterer always started out with “picking on me.” It quickly turned to picking with some mean intent. I’d get fed up, ask him to stop and that would start a fight. That fight would escalate to physical violence.

My new love, my passionate man, was picking on me in all fun. We were gaming, hanging out with his friends, making characters for a roleplaying game. Tossing jokes around, teasing each other… this is what a normal couple does. This is what friends do with one another. I played along, but, inside me the fear for the unknown grew fat on the meaty “what ifs” vittles laid out by my demons. After everyone left, I eventually popped. Took a bath and cried my eyes out. He came into the bathroom, pulled up a piece of floor and talk me through it. He rubbed my back, work through my process. . . with such unconditional love.

I know that there is more heart and soul intent burning inside me than I can ever formally share. The simplest statement, the easiest way for me to say this is by saying, I have found my match. I really believe this rings so true with him. He takes my hand. He pulls me close. He kisses my shoulder. He whispers into my ear, “I’m here. I’m in, babe.” My demons fight so hard against it. Trying to convince me otherwise. Telling me he’s in for now, but wait, we’re stronger than him and we’ll prove right in the end. 

I’ve been so adamant that I will battle these demons on my own. I am so sure that will be my own hero, that I don’t need saving, I just need someone to remind my heart and soul when my head starts to win. That I’m somewhat blindsided by this passionate, patient, loving man. He’s so good about getting right into me, right into my heart, and speaking a language that I’ve only dreamt could be real.

There’s a process here. A process involving deep work, like battling demons, and a process that involves learning to let go and let love. I feel very blessed to have him in my life. I feel very loved. I’m very thankful for him.  He’s teaching me to change my attitude towards the negative self talk. Hes working with me, guiding me, as opposed to insulting me. It’s frightening and refreshing.

I love this man, I love his arms around me. I love his soft gentle voice telling me I’m worth it. I that he is willing to work with me as I change myself, instead of forcing me to change. He’s always telling me that I’m perfect the way I am, he loves me unconditionally. Total foreign land. Total foreign territory. But I love it. I love him. I’m excited for us.