I think I may eventually get to the point where I can just lay all my insecurities out there plain as day. When someone will ask me, 'What's wrong?' I'll be able to answer truthfully justlikethat.
Last night, I had two of my closest friends over and for the first time (in ever) I was comfortable enough to lay out my anxieties willy-nilly. They tumbled out of my mouth and danced between us while I laughed them away.
This is just me, I finally thought.
'This is the weird stuff that goes on in my brain,' I said out loud.
And for once, the weirdness didn't feel like a burden, but rather a banner. And suddenly the banner was easy to carry and didn't feel so neon and white hot to the touch.
I think this is what love is all about.
The one thing (if I can really call it a thing) that I can't write about is my childhood. I wouldn't even know where to begin and if I began, I think that the words would never stop. They would be loosely strung together and trip over themselves to the point where it would just be rambled pain. And the point wouldn't be the pain, but to open the door to a dust filled room. To show you that light can creep in and make the bad stuff good.
That it isn't always all dark, all the time.
That abandonment isn't a life sentence.
That being forced to believe that you are unlovable and not worth fighting for isn't forever.
That friends and other families and husbands and wives and dogs can come in and breathe life where there wasn't any. That things can be re-taught. And relived. And rehashed. And it isn't your fault.
That you are an incomplete human being trying to patch the holes in the drywall and sometimes you're ill-equipped. But sometimes, life will bring you someone, or multiple someones, that will have tools and experience and patience and love and before your very eyes, will rebuild your walls. And those walls will have plenty of windows and doors to let in the sun and the breeze.
That this life can be owned, created, loved and celebrated multiple times over. And the shadows of memories that wake you in the middle of the night, cold sweaty and tear stained, are only fleeting. That there is a warm body next to you with a strong heart, and big arms, and even larger shoulders who will, without fail, carry your burdens around for you while you sift through your own mess.
Life will provide you a way to talk about it without talking about it. And sometimes, that's just enough.