March 26, 2018

I have a problem.

With my mouth (words) I say that I love myself, but my actions don’t always reflect that.

I’m fluent in speaking coded language, when in reality I’m in plain-text pain.

Crying in the dark turns into filtered photos, abbreviated stories, and updates of inauthentic behavior, you know, the behavior that is acceptable and palatable in our sociopolitically-correct spheres of influence.

I’m adepth at authoring allegories of emotional camouflage just so that I’m mindful of others, but, now, I ask myself, am I being mindful of myself? And if I’m not, what is it costing me and how am I paying for it?

Does hidden trauma and unhealed pain metastasize in the form of hate, isolation, jealousy, anger, depression, anxiety, addiction? I believe so.

There are many days when I involuntarily reminisce on painful experiences, and my mind flails away in its own mental moshpit of passive inertia leaving me exhausted and throttled.

That said, I’m doing my best to be kind to myself and respond compassionately to ALL of my experiences, and to absolutely refrain from numbing via compulsive behavior.

Maybe there is purpose even in pain. Maybe there is sun shining through the closed blinds of suffering. I don’t know.

What I do know is that what I don’t reveal will never heal.

I don’t want my recovery delivered via a deferred installment plan with convoluted terms, I want it sooner rather than later, and with clarity.

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