It's Complex

I'm standing on the edge of a lush forest. The smell of evergreen and rotting leaf, pleasant and warm, combining with the fresh breeze off of water. To my left is a pinking sky with air-brushed cloud. To my right the edge of a cliff cuts away to the yawning lake of ice blue. 

I press my bare toes into the satiny moss that covers the stone beneath me.

In this gloriously calm setting I stare into my dream. 

The dream in which all of these years makes sense. The dream in which a thousand tiny glass tears have formed a brand new heart. The dream that says

"It's okay, you got this baby-doll", and that is so much truth it is funny and not sad.

Those of you who have been travelling this journey with me, I am opening up about one of my deepest and darkest places.

"It is better to give than to receive" nailed it...

However, I would reword that to be: "it is easier to give than to receive." ...because it is for me.

In some sort of warped, martyristic way... I have been the giver of. Giver of what? 

Whatever.

Giver of me.

Giver of things.

Half-hearted, whole-hearted...no matter. Smack a bow on that shit and call it my gift to anyone, no one, you....

So stinking happy for everyone else. 

I'll give you a smile, a hug, my love, my adoration and support. Take it dammit...

The eternal spot of "whatever you need to make you feel better."

The dumbest part is it's genuine.

I actually super care unconditionally and wither when I feel like I've let someone down or hurt them.

But to recieve that....

I have serious doubts and apprehension. I assume there is a catch, an agenda. I can explain it away like flicking a bug off my shirt.

I assume I have no valid importance in your life beyond what I can provide you. 

Strangely enough, it's not even an inferiority thing. It's completely logical on every level. I have proof to quantify this opinion and years of baggage to back it up. 

When I let that go...

Well, I've come to this place.

Where I don't know whether to laugh or to cry because it's all just...so...pathetic.

Like...seriously?

"Give me a break," I say to self..."get real. You, my dear, have a wicked bad layered inferiority complex. Stop denying it and deal."

So, I'm dealing. The cards have been stacking up, and I look at the hearts and spades. Nodding to myself, I admit that mentally I am quite aware of my worth. It's all there.

No purpose but to be, for being is enough.

Yet diamonds are sharp, laying compressed beneath the stone of proof and delivery. 

I can trust....trust that I won't last. Trust that you will eventually betray me. Trust that the calls will stop or someone out there is better for you. Trust that when I need you the very most, that is when you won't show up. 

And I know I will be happy for you, because well, that's just how I am.

Or am I?

Probably not...but I will be eventually, that's a guarantee.

I return to my dream...this dream a visualization of its all gonna be okay sugar-booger. Wipe those salty tears and plop your butt down. Stop wondering who or how or making excuses, and simply accept that you are enough, valid, and worthwhile. Everything is gonna be okay.

It's okay to give, I probably always will. 

But the way in which that manifests is changing, day by day, card by card. 

All those things I know to be true, well, they dangle on a dream that is taking over what is...even tho they will never change what was.

This has been, by far, the hardest and most doubted blog I have shared...in that way, I know another dragon has been slain. Thank you...

Namaste

Scar Tissue

"Don't pick scabs, it'll leave a scar."
I remember being told this so many times as a child. But they itch, and so I would scratch. Human nature I suppose. I recall the day I put my tooth through my lip, Gramma shaking her head; "girl," she said to my mum, "that child is going to have a scar." She was right. At this very moment I trace the protruding line with my tongue and chuckle.
My first baby left no stretch marks, the second only a couple lines running vertically down the sides of my belly. Sort of flattering in the right light. Numbers three and four literally destroyed any hopes of ever being comfortably viewed in a bikini. There is nothing I would rather do than never allow my horrifically torn up abdomen to ever be seen ever in ever. It makes me cringe. Not to mention the horror show of my left leg.
These are superficial. Scars I can see, look at, observe.
Some scars are much, much deeper.

The words or actions that can't be taken back, and no matter how much forgiving and letting go happens, they are there.
My sister Jessica, stopped wearing shorts. All summer long she would only be seen in long skirts and jeans. Why? Because of an off-hand remark made in jest about her knees.
I held on to a scarf, brought to me from England. Why? Because the memory of being left on my birthday by someone who went to a place that I've always dreamed of going and I thought should have cared, was a scar I enjoyed revisiting.
I once saw a microwave explode, I'm still terrified of them.

Some scars build up over time. The ones that cover places in the heart. Where I was abandoned or not quite good enough. Where I rolled over and cried alone with someone there beside me. Where being forgotten or overlooked became a habit I got used to. I don't want people looking at these scars. I don't want them to be seen or understood or known. When I laugh instead of answer, say "never mind" instead of "I'm hurting"; I don't want anyone to realize it is because I'd rather not expose the pain that wasn't caused by them.

So here I am. Arrived in this way to say:
I am broken, and I don't mind.
I have scars on my skin and hurts that I am only beginning to understand.
I am also the heart between the I and the U.
I have been selfish in my pursuit of locating me, I will not apologize for that. I have been busy itching at the places I had no name for. Though my wings are slowly sprouting, the happiness located is so much more freeing.
I realized it's okay to admit to being scared. I am not fearful or worried. Neither of those find me here.
However, I am indeed scared.
I wonder if I will make rent.
I wonder if wandering from room to room forgetting what I was looking for, only to realize it's someone to take care of...and there is no one...is normal.
I'm scared that this is only a respite before another storm.
I'm scared that these scars might never go away.
And...
I'm also very much at peace.

Once I have exposed my scars, as they are, and found them to be okay...then maybe I can move past them. Perhaps over time I can learn to love those soft, tissue-covered areas that make me who I am. They might not be pretty, but they are part of something pretty awesome.

My wish, in sharing this, is that you may see that it's okay as well.
Be yourself, with your bumps and scars and jagged edges.
Laugh a little too loudly. Show off your cellulite, scars, jiggles and wiggles.
Know that it's alright to fall flat on your face or cringe away from something that hurts a little too much. In the end, it's all just a part of who we are. It ain't no thang... scars happen.