It's so hard to know sometimes what I should put up here. I remember when I had no followers, and it felt like it was just me, tossing my words into the ether.
I saw them like handfuls of skelatal leaves, imagined them drifting away and away to I-knew-not-where. I wrote from my woundedness, bleeding in English, onto the lined pages of my journal and across my computer screen. Back when I was falling apart, or maybe just falling, like Alice down the rabbit hole, on and on, not knowing when or if I'd ever find the bottom, or rediscover which way was up. But I did; I found the bottom eventually, and to my astonishment there were other people there. People like me, whose worlds were scrambled as snow-globes. Loneliness made me happy to see them. Compassion made me sad. But perhaps the biggest shock of all was discovering how much I'd always been right about, after being told all my life that I was the one who was constantly wrong...
Oh, ruinous land of my mother and father! I shake off your dust from my feet.
I'm trying to move forward, but I still have trouble separating who I was from who I am. I still panic when things take a turn for the better. I still expect to be punished for being alive. But maybe it won't always be this way.
My heart is heavy lately, and so is my mind. I feel like I can barely lift my head sometimes, for the weightiness of my thoughts. Prioritizing is the hardest part of being an adult, I think. Deciding what takes precedence in one's own life, and knowing it is no one else's call. The line between responsibility and perfectionism. The line between laziness and self-care. It's hard for me to see, a lot of the time.
Maybe this is just how it is. Maybe this is life. I can't help wondering, though, how much more difficult certain things are for me, and always will be. There's no way of knowing. Our experiences are ours alone. But I have hope, still, much as it annoys me sometimes: I hope that my life has simply had it's seasons out of order.
I was born into a hundred year's winter, ice and snow and silent malice all around, each day lived as under a curse. A curse that I have broken, now, through sheer force of will. (While breaking curses is all very well, it still takes time for that much frost to melt.) But spring will come, I suppose. Eventually.