Here I sit worrying about what someone else will think about something when I know that this is my life and my world and it’s not about anyone else right now. It’s about me, and this time I wouldn’t want to make myself go away even if I could. I’m trying to figure me out now. That means pages and pages of seemingly aimless writing about what’s going on, what’s going wrong, what mattered and what’s real to me now. It means claiming ownership of my feelings, my reactions, my body, my Self. It’s mine, and no one else’s. I can do whatever I want with myself. I am allowed to be proud of who I am and what I can do. I’m allowed to say that this is me, and you can either deal with me as I am, or not. If the answer is not, then it’s not my problem, it’s yours.
I can say all of this… how long before I can believe it again? Piece by piece I have to reclaim what I’ve lost of myself.
It’s like the father of the bride giving away his daughter… only I’m the one who gave myself away, and now I want me back.