Rough days lately. Sleepless nights. Restless soul. Overwhelming life. A moment in the bathroom mirror a few nights ago, raging against the reality of my new life – a life riddled with anxiety, fear, depression. A life after healing from the accident, when I thought I’d be better but I’m not and never will be, and I must learn to cope. Gently gently, I must learn to manage.
But that night, I didn’t want to learn. I wanted it to stop. And I stared at my reflection, sobbing, and I knew it was never all going away, and I gripped the counter tightly and gasped for breath, and suddenly these words, this song, drifted through my ravaged heart. "Fuck yes. I am exactly the person that I want to be."
What if it’s still true? What if I want to be me – not a self without disability or mental illness, not a self who has so many spoons she doesn’t need to care – but this me? The real me? The me that is too scared to make phone calls. The me that struggles to go out at night, who flinches at loud noises and strange men and gets overwhelmed at the drop of a hat. The me that will always limp, who can’t ever carry a purse on her shoulder. The me who has restless legs and ringing ears and a big fat belly and a big laugh, who loves to travel and still mourns her dead cat and thinks her son hung the moon and her wife the stars. The me with unlimited compassion and very limited capacity, the me in the Love and in the lack.
Because that’s me, that is exactly who I am.
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