To Love Oneself (Writing)

I’ve been noticing recently how different life feels when you love yourself.

I spent so long believing myself to be the ink that stained this precious life. Some malicious villain thinly veiled by the love and light I wanted to be. Incapable of deserving any other role.

I hoped so desperately someone would come and save me and prove to me I was worthy. That maybe I could be the princess.

I placed responsibility in everyone’s hands but my own and played the victim when each one inevitably fell short of being my savior. Of succeeding in an impossible role and completing a task I never asked of them.

It was so much easier to believe that I was intrinsically broken. That I was missing certain parts, the capabilities that those around me held as their right. 

And I don’t want for one second for you to be fooled that because I said it was easier, that it was easy. I was tortured, I was miserable, I was suffocating at my own hands but unable to see past the dark veil I had placed over my own being. 

There is this phenomena I think of often. This awareness of a feeling with an inability to articulate it. I can touch my fingertips and feel it pulsing through my being. Sometimes it radiates around me, sometimes it vibrates inwardly. Sometimes it feels tight around my throat or hot and loose within my stomach. Others it weaves itself into my heart or fills the space behind my eyes. In any case, it is present. The moment of awareness before understanding. And it used to terrify me. I was so fearful of life without interpretation. I felt as if without understanding I could not control. I would spiral at the first acknowledgment of this feeling- hence why I turned off my emotions for so long. The cyclical process of feeling but not understanding —> desperately trying to grasp meaning or understanding to regain control —> an inability to understand the present feelings —> turning outwardly for external control or validation —> living completely within an ego mindset and losing all connection to my body and souls needs —> forcing my body to work as a slave in the misguided attempt to feel as if I regained some semblance of control (eating, working out, working harder, physically being validated, etc) —> not allowing any space for emotions to show up, to send their message, to exist, to be worked through naturally, not allowing soul time, not allowing rest —> eventual exhaustion and breakdown (a forced release of all the emotions I had been silencing but now not in a way of understanding but in a way of pressure needing to be released) —> fighting a war with my own being, my emotions being unable to work on my side or team due to me forcing them into a juxtaposition with my own being. A war against myself —> exhaustion, the return of numbness, and inability to sit comfortably with the remnants of the message or the emotions that had been released —> repeat trying to regain control —> and onward and onward. 

So this phenomena, this awareness, I now love and cherish. I find myself giddy upon recognizing it. As if some cycle is ending, some life/death/life necessity is coming. Some realization preparing to be made, wether it be later this week or later this year. It is signifying growth, change, life as it is meant to be lived. And it is why I cherish writing so much. Both the ability to write and digesting the writing of others. There is this eureka moment that happens so often in the absorption of the words of others. This THAT moment. When someone has so perfectly encapsulated a perceived feeling and written it so simply onto the page. The combination of language that perfectly interprets the fullness behind my eyes. Or the tingling of my fingertips. It’s the closest thing I have found in this world to magic. To the ability to feel like we are on this world for a reason. To feel connection to the human experience, to the soul of another.

How Powerful it feels to be understood. As I write about it now there is a river threatening to flow from the base of my throat trickling slowly from the rims of my eyelids. There is magic pooling within my sinuses asking me to close my eyes, tip my head back, and breath this life in deeply and slowly. I imagine this is how it feels as a producer adds the final note or an artist signs her name to her newest reflection of her life experience. 

It is in these moments the wind always seems to pick up and sing with pride as I feel, as I express. There is this closeness to the universe that we all deserve to live within. I often contemplate what it means to be a writer. But in reality, the answer is simple. It is what it means to be a human. To have a deep need and desire to be seen and to feel. To want to connect with others and share this little slice of life as it is experienced uniquely through my lens. It is for no other reason than to share. To be. To experience the feeling of reading your own emotions and the awe and bewilderment in the capability of other’s understanding.

Through this, I understand now how to best love myself and others. I understand that vulnerability is a gift, a practiced skill, and trusting is the bravest thing we can do in this life. To trust myself that my experience is worthy of connection, to trust others with the inner workings of my soul. Life lived with an aversion to the highest highs and lowest lows is the greatest disservice to yourself and others. Love fiercely, strive for peace not happiness. Live rooted in love for yourself, first, then others. Radiate gold, but know your boundaries. Allow space. And most importantly, find your version of connection