Found Poetry Break – Aliens Anonymous

FB Post February 6th, 2021

Aliens Anonymous

I used to joke I was an alien

My earth suit malfunctioning

At every turn

Allergic to life I’d quip

But it was no honest laugh

It was always a cry

A call

A rope

Seeking purchase anywhere

It could find

I tied myself to lovers

Threw myself into jobs

Tethered myself to toxicity

Anything to feel alive

Life was lived from the outside

Separate and cold

I didn’t feel locked out

No it was me

Just unable to find

The way in

So disconnected

Barely able to feel

A raging inferno


I can’t even joke

That way anymore

I’ve found that I’m not

All that odd

There are so many of us

From every walk of life

Battered, scarred, forgotten

In Every dimly lit corner

Damaged, belittled, broken

From the richest to the

poorest , no race, nor creed,

nothing could stop

the damage that was

Being done

After years of hurting

Our souls retreating

we sometimes reached out

with hope, a tentative smile

only to be smacked down

again and again

we are not alien

we are not alone

we are simply hurting

It’s time to find our way home.

This concept is so embedded in my life that I named my future dream punk band Faulty Earth Suits of FESS for short LOL I even share my blog there because this whole mental health journey is about this FES 😛

And then sh*t got weird

The one where I describe the total cr*p fest that was the 18 months after my husband’s death.

TW: Suicide (I’m too worn out to make it pretty with memes and pics sorry for the wall of text)

After Rob’s death, I sunk down into a deeper depression than I had thought possible. The very act of living and feeling was like a knife in my brain. I didn’t want to feel or think about anything. I had a bit of luck in that my company underwent a merger and I was laid off – lucky because I surely would have lost my job anyway and at least this way I got a severance package. After the first month of binge drinking and living on anti-anxiety meds. I turned to yoga. When I say I “turned” to yoga, I mean like in a cultist way. That trajectory will be woven through some of this but it deserves it’s own examination so maybe one day I’ll do a series on how asana (yoga poses) saved me and then destroyed me. It’s a whole thing. But now it’s simply a thing I do to keep my hip from screaming and I believe meditation is one of the greatest gifts I took from being a yogi and a teacher. Again meditation deserves it’s own telling but that is for another time.

I get super into Core Power Yoga. I chose it randomly from an internet search because they had a location and schedule I could use. I went EVERY DAY, sometimes multiple times a day for months. Simultaneously I was living this duel life where I was partying with my motorcycle and Hashing groups. So I was living so bipolar it’s comical. I was split and needed constant distraction. But I thought I was “healed”. I was pretending. I got involved with a few different lovers very quickly as well… and that is where it got weird. I was playing in polyamorous couples, drinking, dabbling in drugs again (I had given them up after college) it was like I was at my worst manic stage from my 20s but coupled with a deep depression and accented with a lot dissociation and outbursts of anger.

I was still pretending that yoga had “cured” me of my grief. But I was secretly spiraling out of control. Then the money ran out and I had to go back to work. This was probably the beginning of the end for me because the stress of a new job, traveling, and trying to maintain my yoga practice (which might have been the only thing keeping me from joining the circus at this point) I was slowly unraveling. I looked like a super hero on the outside. But inside I was suppressing more and more. The yoga stopped being soothing and just became another place where I was pretending to be OK.

One of my relationships unravelled, it wasn’t shocking none of us had any business trying to be a thruple and I was ousted of the relationship. I was too vulnerable. Mind you this is less than a year from Rob’s death. I was in no way ready to move on but I felt I had to and I was DESPERATE to replace that love. DESPERATE. It was like I had a collapsing black hole inside me and I was trying to fill it with anything – wine, women, song! You name it I would have tried it. I travelled. I took Rob’s ashes to new places for that first year. I wrote a SHITE tonne of poetry. I pretended.

But when that tiny ray of light was doused when the third in my thruple said I had to go – I was crushed in a way that felt worse than the night robbed died. I just couldn’t stand to feel the things I was feeling. That black hole sucked me right in…After I was dumped. I, once again, pretended I was strong enough. I was fine. I went to a movie and dinner with my mom and assured her I was fine.

(Cue Morgan Freeman: She was, dear listener, not fine)

I went to bed with a glass of wine and lay down on Rob’s side of the bed. I saw his last crossword puzzle unfinished. I cleaned his glasses. I rummaged in the nightstand. And there they were. His pain meds – Oxycontin. I thought. Just one so I can sleep. I took one. Waited. I still felt. I still wanted to sleep. I didn’t want to die particularly, I just wanted things to stop for a bit. I wasn’t strong enough. I was failing. I was letting everyone down….I took another one.
Then I thought – F*ck it…and took a handful. Mind you washed down with wine. Then the panic set in. What if it worked and I never saw my kids again. What if this was it. I was conflicted.

It is fuzzy from there- I know I talked to someone on the phone. The cops were called. I had a gun pulled on me when they asked what I took and I reached for the pills in the nights stand. I woke up in the hospital. I saw my mom’s face.
I was transferred to the psych ward…Identified as BiPolar yet again…and that my friends is a story for another day. Because oof da. That’s a lot.

There is still so much shame. Sigh – but when I come back maybe we’ll talk about how sh*tty the psyche ward is and how we watched One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest when I got out.

Poetry Break – Words On The Page

(from a FB post March 2021) last night I dreamt that I was drowning in purple ink… and it struck me this morning that I had started writing poems every day and then just stopped.

Not sure I want to keep up an everyday thing, but it was obvious my one-shot poetry was keeping my mind at ease somehow.

SO not sure if that was a case of doing something else creative to unblock or that my artist was saying hey it’s great you enjoy this thing too…but the words still want to come out.

Guess I’m back to writing… Words on the Page

When I write with pen and paper the words bleed themselves onto the page

The hand moves to catch up but the words have already decided where they will be

If music plays in the background my mind follows it out of the way of the words

They crawl out hesitantly at first not sure if they will be sequestered yet again

They have often flowed joyously onto pages shifting, teasing, searching, seeking

Only to be disparaged, judged, ridiculed no peace no kind word of encouragement

Thrashed and beaten they retreat not wishing to be scolded for existing

And now I sit ready, weeping for all the times I punished those words

Those sweet words that understood my thoughts, my pains, my fleeting joys

Words that began as meaningless mumbles mere scratches on the page

Those words that grew and appeared and filled the pages with healing with release

Over and over, they tried to be there coaxing helping pleading only to be rebuked

Once again looking for refuge once again crawling back my schemes and ideas vanishing

Fading into the fears swallowed up by pride and ego and crushing doubt

The words they never fail me

even when I’ve done my best to silence them

They will still slowly return

Both of us hoping this time I’ll let them stay

Let them live

Let them breathe

Let them be imperfect

And True.

Good Grief -The Dead Husband Card

Robert Gregory LaFavor-Courtwright went on life support just before my birthday 16 years ago. For a few days it was up in the air, then on my birthday, Oct 7th, 2005 we were told there was hope. So my sister-in-law, my birthday twin, and the rest of the family went out that night to celebrate our birthdays. I was turning 37. I got a tattoo. My mom got a tattoo. We were hopeful. I had faith. I believed he was too good and too loving and had too much to offer to be gone. He loved me. He loved me in a way that I didn’t think was possible. Then two days later, October 9th, 2005. I lay next to him on the bed as they turned off the machines and I felt his last breath leave his body. I cried the kind of keening cry the man-in-black cried in the “Princess Bride”, the sound of ultimate suffering. And in that very moment, the process of grief began and would be quickly stunted and would forever change how I showed up in the world. I would enter an extremely tumultuous decade where the rapid cycling of emotions would make me careen back into ways I thought I had “overcome” and left in my 2o’s. I would learn that grief makes others uncomfortable and that people are super judgy about how much hurt we are allowed to feel and express and for how long and where…the rules are endless and honestly cruel.

I already knew this actually but until this time I hadn’t realized just how much we squash emotions in others and how much that can truly harm someone.

There is so much to unpack – within the first moments of his passing I was IMMEDIATELY told I had to be quiet. Stop crying. That won’t bring him back. I physically collapsed (I was also exhausted) and was told to “stop being so dramatic”. I began the process of stuffing my feelings.

See it was always hard to explain to people that have friends and close relationships that work how devastating a loss can be when you have struggled with connection your whole life. I’ve always felt off, a little wrong, too emotional, too needy, and yet too independent. I never felt people got the whole of me. The dichotomy that I’m so completely two things at all times. A manly girly girl. A rainbow goth. A sensitive biker b*tich. A punk rock ballerina. But Rob? OH he got it and relished in it… he could treat me like I was a lady and then ride on the back of my motorcycle celebrating my independence and power. Around him, I never had to choose which persona got to come out and play. He was there for all my sides. When you have been starved of that your whole life and finally FINALLY feel like a whole human just because someone says “Hey all of you is great” and then have it ripped from you? Well, it was devastating.

But I heard these things all in the first week
-“you weren’t even together that long.”
– “I mean he was sick right”
-“it’s not like your life was so great”
-“you weren’t even really married” (we were common law and we both recognized. I had proposed a year earlier and we were putting off a ceremony because of his health)
Within a month I was hearing
-“try to think about the good memories”
-“you need to be on anti-depressants this is taking too long”

And the ultimate shut down came that New Year’s Eve so less than 3 months later- which would have been Rob’s 37th birthday- I wanted to plan a smaller meal with some friends at a special place but it would have made someone else’s plans be delayed and while trying to say I didn’t want their plans to be overridden I just needed this – I was told “well it doesn’t matter you’ll just play the dead husband card and get your way” (I didn’t get my “way” I gave up and got about the business of acting ok) I think that was the single worst moment for me… it was when I felt even more keenly the loss of someone who cared enough about me to see my pain and not put qualifiers on it. It was all my fears about not having “real” friends laid bare. And in that moment I splintered.

I have been leading a duel life every since. One where I pretend I’m OK and make terrible decisions out of pain but act like it’s all normal. And one where there’s a ball of sadness locked away that bleeds out as anger and impatience. It leaks out as apathy. It oozes over things and makes even happy times duller. And all because I didn’t want to play the dead husband card. I didn’t want to make people feel inconvenienced or uncomfortable so I set about creating the biggest mask of all….one of the healed person. A mask I wore with limited success but a lot of fakery for nearly 10 years until my body and mind just couldn’t anymore.

I just can’t anymore. But that’s a good thing. Pretending to be ok is malarkey. That’s why I am here to embrace the full reality of me. And that includes being bipolar. Maybe if I can get all these other layers out I can face down that struggle and fully understand it.

I got some big emotions. My feelings are BIG. Learning to feel them and not let them bang up everyone around me is a journey. So whatever you are going through don’t let anyone else tell you when you are “done” or “ready” or whatever unhelpful advice they might give – I guarantee you it’s more about them than you. Only you can know if you are still processing. Only you get to decide how much it hurts. No one is inside your heart but you. Feel your feels. Trust me on this – either you feel them on purpose or you and everyone will feel them anyway in a less helpful way.

Nothing as powerful as avoidance

This is the face of unresolved emotions. I know I want to talk about the time after Rob’s death. Need to even. It’s important in the evolution of how I arrived at this point of FINALLY dealing with me BEING bipolar. It was a time of yet another encounter with my bipolar diagnosis that I brushed off. It will be another decade of life that I pushed and pushed and felt my sanity and self-worth erode. Another terrible marriage/relationship choice. Another cycle of enthusiastically throwing myself into something and then running away. That chapter will give way to the early California years and the next diagnosis that came with the added – uhmm you are also like super ADHD and OCD. By the way you got some C-PTSD going on in there… Gurl you in danger.

I just create, destroy, and run. Wash – Rinse – Repeat. That my friends is a cycle of mental health, not a personality trait. And I can see with that perfect hindsight vision how close I’ve come to breaking the cycle and then the inciting incident or the complete overwhelm that happens and I slide backward.
Yet I think I can finally say that I know I’m not falling all the way back to the beginning. I can see the progress. The learning. And I suppose it’s why I’m finally here putting everything out there. Maybe I’ll tumble my way through all the malarkey flashback style for a few years and then put it together like a puzzle.

For now, I’m avoiding the grief post. I’m avoiding reliving what comes next and I can practically see my therapist’s raised eyebrow as she doesn’t have to say a word. She gets me, she knows I know. I know she knows I know…wait what was I talking about…. avoidance, oh yeah. I suppose the progress today is I am here writing even if it’s not 100% about what I want to talk about. Even if it IS dancing around the darkness I must traverse. The hurt, anger, and pain I feel somewhat obligated to carry. And good lord the truckload of regret for what I’ve done to my family and friends.

Instead since my grief post, I did this:

Instead of actually blogging/writing/processing I went on a clickup binge. LOL avoidance master!

At least it has the appearance of being productive. Even now I’m putting the pressure on myself to write every day – which of course I will struggle to maintain and then I’ll feel like a failure and then I’ll quit??? Well, that has been the past pattern. It’s hard to work through the hollow times. It’s hard to maintain hypomania levels of enthusiasm and it’s nearly impossible to slog through some of the deeper depressions and care about any of it. I’ve joked my whole life that “I am my own dichomoty” and “as with all things I swing both ways” — Hahahhahaaaaa… OH wait. #porquenolosdos ? Why not indeed.
I’ve always known the truth. Here’s hoping embracing it will finally bring lasting, sustainable change that leads me to the life I dream of and a way to heal the generational trauma that I so graciously passed on to my children.

My kids….

Bright Bright Sun Shiny Day

“The Midnight Show”, 1973 Johnny Nash singing I can see clearly now

I was promised one world and learned something else – it has been messing with me my whole life.

I was around 5 when this aired. This matters because today we are going to talk about core beliefs.

Recently I’ve given a lot of thought to things I believe from my childhood. I have done 3 rounds of Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way over the last 2 years. I have written my #morningpages 448 days (and counting) in a row. That is a LOT of introspection, and a lot of decunstructing of my beliefs.

We all have them. Things we picked up either directly because someone said them to us a lot – or just once in a very vulnerable moment. Think things like “you are so lazy”, “you are such a slob”, “you are too sensitive” or if you are lucky “you are smart” “your smile lights up a room”. And other societal beliefs that we pick up more by proximity. Things we see and hear from other people and in the media we consume, “poor people did that to themselves”, “the world is a scary/kind place”, “hard work will get you where you want to go”, “equality is possible”, “racism is evil and systemic”. (Pssst this is how racism ended up systemic, core beliefs we are given often w/o intent as children)

It has been said that we form our core beliefs and personalities by age 7

Now we all grew up in different places and different times. We had parents with their own beliefs, we went to different schools (maybe someday I’ll write my feelings on what catholic school did to me) So we all were programmed, one way or another with a core set of beliefs. Many people don’t examine these beliefs over the course of their life. What they were taught is what they know and beleive and they change very little. But some of us have a sense that something isn’t quite right. Maybe those beliefs didn’t match your own inanate morality, or maybe as you grew up you saw conflicting information and you couldn’t ignore new ideas. What ever it is when we examine those beleifs we can begin to understand who we truly are, what we truly desire, (Luci would be so proud) and that is the beginning of healing for a lot of us. Because if you are still operating from the same place you did at the age of 7 w/out finding out if your coping mechanisms and beliefs are still relevant and true you may be in a bit of rut. It’s quite possible your life has been on repeat for many cycles.

Do you even truly know?

The only way to get out of your loop (Thank you Westworld) is to examine it and see what you want to change. Or maybe see what you want to enhance.

Either way, reflection, questioning, examining, and challenging your beliefs is how we become our most authentic, grounded, peaceful selves.

Wow, this took a different turn. A much more positive turn really because I came here to say this: This was what I heard in my youth…this was the future I was promised —finding out we were lied to really drug me down, man. I want the diverse, accepting, anti-racist, equitable future I was promised.

But I realized something uplifting in the process. My core beliefs are about equity, fairness, anti-racism, diversity, inclusion, feminism, humanism. My core belief system is a big ‘ol 60s hippy that believes in peace, love, and rainbows. And although it is at odds with *gestures vaguely* all of this, it’s a comfort to know that my core being still believes in the messages of hopes and the vision of a diverse and accepted humanity. (this is my plug for how #sciencefiction made me a better person)

I’ll return to my bipolar journey soon. I promise. But in true bipolar nature that part of the story sent me off on a tangent and it might take some time to circle back around.

Until then what are some of your core beliefs? helpful or harmful. told to you or absorbed by proximity. What are some you have changed? What are some you wish you could change? What are some you are glad are firmly entrenched in your being?

Just keep rollin’

This backstory feels heavy and ponderous. And yet it also feels necessary. To understand how someone reaches 53 w/o ever really dealing with a particular issue head-on matters. It matters to me as a person, but I think it matters more in our understanding of how people are suffering every day. It matters in the context of medical harm and how systemic issues of sexism and racism add further harm to individuals and how that equates to a societal ill. Our mental health issues are rampant and unchecked and we’re all just out here running into each other and judging each other and there is little to no understanding of the cost of this state of being. We have no grace for ourselves and each other in our trauma and in the comparison of our trauma.
Recognizing that other people are in worse situations, recognizing my privileges, I still need to process my hurt. My therapist says I’m not really angry I just have a deep well of hurt to face, rage is so much easier. But I digress, I’m here to speak the pain so that I can face it, and hopefully, as I heal and begin to work with instead of against my bipolar nature I’ll be more able to help out those who are suffering even more.

Ulitmately that is all I want, to be able to process so that I can more truly live and in doing so help others do the same. I beleive so passionatley that we are losing too much art, wonder, joy, and progress to people’s fears and pain and unrelenting traumas. How glorious would a world of people living authentically and with the capacity to face the darkness and triumph so much they can then share their gifts with the world w/out destroying themselves. Rather than comparing hurt we let each person live their truth w/o comparison.
Some say I’m a dreamer….

I’m avoiding the next chapter – The post-Rob Lafavor years. The way that grief tore me down to a shadow and had me regress to a proto version of myself like I hit a bipolar reset and was 20 all over again – in the worst broken ways possible.
It wasn’t all bad, they were also the yoga years, the Arizona family years, the South Korea Years, the find my way to California years…but before I can speak to that I’m going to have to wax poetical about grief – and honestly I’m too tired today.

Today there is no hypomania to push me through. Today I have that dull empty ache inside. Today I’m less enthusiastic, less hopeful. The good news is, now that I’m embracing and learning about my bipolar self I can see it for what it is and truly know that this too shall pass. Sometimes my neurotransmitters are on fire and some days they are sludge. I’m practicing moving through the sludge w/o getting bogged down while remembering to give myself grace, that understanding that I am not always in control of every little thing. And although that aggravates me, it also releases me… just maybe I’ll learn to actually relax.
Let’s not get ahead of ourselves 😀

cogito, ergo sum

I am. I have. I will be.
I was first diagnosed as bipolar almost 30 years ago(back then we called it manic-depressive which admittedly is more descriptive but way less cool-sounding, I mean who doesn’t want to sound like they are the earth, or a magnet? right?). My youngest was a year old. But that first diagnosis was withdrawn when it was discovered I had hypothyroidism and the therapist felt that a lot of my symptoms could be confused with someone going through the death spiral of their pituitary/thyroid axis combined with postpartum depression. I was 26, Mother to a third child. I didn’t have google (oddly enough it was being invented that very year) or a lot of resources. I said OK and I started on Synthroid and Prozac and went about my life depressed, stressed, and fighting my body. I didn’t even have memes to get me through :O

Little did I know the cyclical nature of my brain. Little did I know how often I would blow up my life because I had no idea who or, more precisely, what I was dealing with. (I feel compelled to chronicle that it was a chiropractor that first identified my suspected thyroid disorder and sent me to the doctor for my first test, which my doctor almost didn’t do because “I had just had a child and needed to just exercise and I would feel better” I later found out that postpartum is a common time to develop it and had I listened to my doctor I would have gone longer undiagnosed-and thus began my long journey of medical harm and gaslighting) The primary care gaslighting is a whole other Oprah – let’s just focus on the mental health aspect. It will be enough.

I would be rediagnosed in my early 30’s by the rudest, gruffest, most condescending psychiatrist of the bunch (the bar was pretty high too) His misogyny was epic. We tried a few medications but I was never really prepared for their effect and almost always got incredibly worse right away – and I was always “over-reacting” and “being hysterical” – so after a year I rejected the diagnosis, the meds, and well, therapy in general for quite some time. This is just one of the times psychiatric care did more harm than good because I was never coached or supported through the process. SUUUREEE now I know that meds can make you worse at first, SUUUURREE NOW I know that bipolar can make you think you don’t need meds, SUUUUUUUUUUUURRRREEEE now I KNOW a lot of things…but imagine if that doctor had explained that to me? Instead, I was labeled “non-compliant” “difficult” and “combative” … because I cried…a lot (anyone who knows me might laugh at that) and begged for different medications.

I was a single mom with three children and was made to feel that all of it was my weakness and lack of effort. Another nail in the gaslighting coffin as my confidence, joy, and belief in my own feelings eroded. Still, I persevered.

A few years pass without meds or therapy and I start my Master’s Studies, I get promoted and move up in my work, … I have hopes and dreams and I meet the love of my life. Sure I struggle but I believed that I had “overcome” my issues. I was responsible, I wasn’t doing all the manic things I had done in my 20s – so surely that was all youthful exuberance and not a mental health disorder. I drank too much. My newfound love is sick and struggling and I begin having my first panic attacks. But that’s normal right? things are hard so of course, I’m panicked. OH, there is too much, I will sum up… My husband’s health issues take over our lives and he eventually dies from an allergic reaction to MRI dye – It was on my 37th birthday. OOF still 16 years later it hits like a train wreck. My anger and sadness run so deep. I blamed myself. I blamed the medical system. I didn’t blame god because I don’t believe in them, but man that sure would have been a nice outlet. Again I digress – it’s sort of my MO 😛

Holy crap – this is a long story. Let’s leave it there on this uplifting moment of my dead 36-year-old husband because I need some space to let this wash over me. This is 10 years of my life. And looking back what a freaking intense 10 years. 10 years of not getting the help I truly needed. 10 years of self-medicating harm as I tried to just hang on to life by the tips of my fingers. During that time was also that first divorce with a costly custody battle. I bounced back with a new job, life, and love. And then love was torn from me. Every time I thought I had my proverbial shit together there was a blowup. sometimes caused by me, and sometimes caused by life that was then exacerbated by my mental health.

That’s 2 — TWO bipolar diagnoses received and rejected.
2 – TWO marriages
3 – THREE children
6 – SIX different medications (approx. my memory is often shoddy at best)
and a whole host of jobs and career changes and moves. My word did I move a lot. LOL

Until next time. I am bipolar. And in finally embracing and accepting that I might finally be able to find some peace. Peace, Love, Punk, and Rainbows.

I’ve been to paradise…

“I’m selfish, impatient, and a little insecure. I make mistakes, I am out of control and at times hard to handle. But if you can’t handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don’t deserve me at my best.”

― Marilyn Monroe

We often leave the first part of this quote off. It feels better to just be empowered, doesn’t it? To scream “accept me”. To cry “love me”. Yet by ignoring the first half we only put the burden on others w/o turning an understanding eye on ourselves. When we partake in the #toxicpositivity of ignoring the shadow side we don’t have a full picture. And honestly, this is a recipe for unhappiness. It is only in embracing and loving and forgiving and working WITH our darker less perfect nature can we expect anyone else to do the same. And how many humans have pasted this quote and have not given that same unconditional acceptance to someone else. Personally, I might not want someone’s “best” if their worst makes me miserable. Come to think of it I’ve done that with many many (MANY) co-dependant miserable relationships. I don’t want that for me and I sure as heck don’t want to foist it on someone else

Because that’s the thing, we don’t have healthy boundaries so we don’t understand what that means. We can have our reasons for our less pleasant side but that in no way makes anyone else beholden to putting up with them. Each of us gets to choose what is acceptable. What is tenable w/in the context of relationships? And relationships are not quid pro quo, end sum equations. We don’t get to, or should I say it’s not healthy, to keep a balance sheet that says I get to be this if you want this. That’s simply not how it works. When we learn that each person has their limits, their triggers, their abilities we stop thinking of them as accepting or rejecting us and come to understand that it’s always been about what they can handle and accept for themselves. Telling them they don’t “deserve” your best because of what they can and cannot handle shows a lack of compassion. And my friends, compassion starts at home.

What we think about ourselves, how we treat ourselves, that is how we treat others. And that’s what I’m here to unravel. The most important relationship in our whole lives. Ourselves.
We spend so much energy and time seeking out love and acceptance outside of ourselves that we forget we get to have both right here. Right now. And when we give that gift to ourselves it’s easier to share it with others, and it’s easier to understand that someone else’s journey doesn’t have to reflect on our worth or value or lovability. #aswithinsowithout And don’t others deserve happiness as well?

And so it begins for me. I’m reclaiming my power. I’m learning to love, accept, treasure, and understand myself. It doesn’t mean I’m not already lovable. I’ve got a lot of great qualities and I’m very generous and caring, all of that is true. Yet that can all be true as well as understanding – I’m volatile, controlling, suspicious, and really hard to love because of my fears. My walls are high and fortified and I’m done asking other people to do the work to tear them down. I’m done putting all my worth and happiness on someone else’s shoulders.
self-love is not ego it’s germane to our very existence, the foundation of all things. And when we learn to love ourselves exactly as we are then we can begin to allow others to do the same. I’m not asking anyone to fix me anymore or to complete me. I am complete. And when I truly embody that, maybe then I’ll be willing to share that fully with others. #breakingdownthewalls