Sometimes physical pain compels some writing about mental pain (mental is not just emotional. It is also cognitive). I have been incredibly scared to write anything at all- I tell myself I’ll not be lazy and I’ll let my feelings stew so one day then can come out a little less sharp edged- something someone could consider holding in their hands. But then physical pain does compel. As I lie in bed, nestling a hot water bag, hoping my feet would let the warmth stick, but for some reason they don’t.
“There is nothing broken about me.”, I tell myself, as I acknowledge that I have not sat with my grief enough, my grief of loss. It has been about moving on with life as swiftly as you can. What happens to the holes left behind by fingers prying open your existence? (In both good ways and bad).
Maybe you don’t need to plant flowers there. Maybe you leave it as is. Those markers are for me to remember what I grow from, the acts of everyday strength of not siding with the deceiving comfort of shrinking myself. Taste courage on your tongue, and speak your bones. Rattle and ask for love- for yourself from yourself. Take the love that comes your way and see that as more power to love yourself.
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