Smudges and all.
Life is different than I thought.
It sits somewhere in peace.
Without pain, without numbness, without joy.
Or is that love?
Are they the same; life and love?
Is that what this world is missing…
love and life being one
By Daphne Shadows
There’s a hard place inside me
Where none can hurt me.
This is a solitary place.
These moments settle into me
With a velvety grace
Lace against bare skin.
Where I’m lost.
Not a haze
Perhaps I do hurt
But I can’t find my way.
A thick paste
I do not understand.
By Daphne Shadows
I am not apologizing for feeling fragile.
I am not apologizing for where I am at in life right now.
I am not apologizing for how I’ve grown up and for how it helped shape me into someone who has to learn how to walk, so to speak, now, in her early twenties.
I am not going to apologize for not telling the full story.
I am not going to apologize.
I am so tired of people getting their panties in a bunch because I’m not someone I’m not.
I’m feeling vulnerable, I’m learning new things, I’m building up strength I should’ve been building as a child. I am speaking truthfully sometimes instead of sugar coating.
People don’t understand.
They don’t want to.
People, for instance, who don’t understand things they’ve never experienced. Like depression. They just want people to suck it up, get out of bed, knock it off, and change their lives, stop moping. Some people can’t understand.
I’m tired of feeling I have to justify what I feel.
I am not apologizing for someone else’s issues.
For saying no.
I am not going to apologize.
For having to learn to allow myself to cry.
For not being fearless.
I think a little courage is what we all need, not to be fearless. Fearless is the toddler that touches the burner even though she’s been warned it will burn her. Fearless is jumping into unneeded danger. Fearless is a lack of common sense. A little fear for the right reasons is healthy.
Courage is being afraid but doing what one must anyway. Working through the fear, the terror, the paralyzing panic that tells me I can’t do this, can’t get through this, can’t muster up.
What I want is courage. And I won’t apologize for only having discovered this.
I am not going to apologize for not having a clear direction.
Not understanding what I feel half the time.
I am not apologizing for making mistakes.
I am not apologizing for being different than you.
For learning slower than you.
For having experienced less than you.
I am not apologizing for caring about the things I do.
For feeling the ways I do, all at the same time, feeling like my head and heart are spinning madly out of control, spending all my energy on trying to keep my head up.
I am not apologizing for taking baby steps.
For being emotional.
For being unemotional on the outside.
I guess I am not going to apologize for being stuck.
For feeling trapped inside my own skin. Inside this cage I no longer recognize but call home. Inside this never ending sadness, feeling so alone, so overwhelmed, overcrowded, helpless.
I am not going to apologize for having weakness.
I am most certainly not going to apologize for just now learning to find my own strength.
I am realizing that I don’t need to apologize.
Scratch that. I get it now.
I don’t need to justify myself to others.
I don’t need someone to understand me if it means sacrificing who I am. I want to be understood, to be accepted, yes. Most everyone does. And I don’t need to apologize for that either.
I’m not apologizing for changing my mind.
For taking forever to make decisions because its difficult for me to find out what I want, what I feel, what I actually think.
I am not apologizing for being a little lost.
I am not apologizing for needing space.
I am not apologizing for being angry.
I am not apologizing for being unfinished.
I am not apologizing for my honesty.
For needing my own identity.
I deserve my own thoughts, emotions, desires. My own freedom to live and breathe inside my own skin and not to doubt that I’m justified in doing so.
I am not apologizing for clomping through the muck until I find healthy perspective in the middle somewhere.
Life is messy. Personalities, reasons, ideals, actions -it all collides and mixes together, clashes or matches, whirls past one other. No one has this thing figured out. We’ve all got questions and insecurities and wonderments, confidence and common sense, bad days and magnificent days.
Not apologizing for that.
I am going to sit here and quite happily, quite painfully, be.
I am not apologizing.
This post is mainly going to center around me being a writer. If that irritates or bores you, skedaddle. However, you can simply get rid of the word “writer/writing” and add in your passion. Then it’d relate to just about anyone. 😉
Do you ever doubt that you’re a good writer?
I don’t mean do you doubt that you are a writer.
I simply mean, publishing material?
Do you doubt that it’s what you’re meant for, what you’re good at, what you’re in love with, what you want to spend the rest of your life doing? Do you ever wonder, would it be better if I gave up on writing as a career path and went for something else? It would certainly be easier. People wouldn’t say I was wasting my life or taking too long to get to where I want to be.
I wonder that sometimes lately.
It comes in these flashes, at the bottom of some terrible episode of me realizing that I’m miserable because I keep forgetting that I’m allowed to enjoy life. That I’m allowed to tailor my life into something I want, the rest of the world’s opinion of me be damned.
It comes when I realize I’m exhausted and bottomed out. Burned out. Tired of fighting against chains I allowed other people to put on me, simply by giving into their mentality. Thinking I should be someone better than I am.
It only lasts a few moments, literally.
That’s the length of time I can even imagine spending my life not being a writer.
And then it’s gone and I see how ridiculous it was.
Because something will remind me.
I’ll finish a really good book and look up the author’s website and get that rush. That unbelievable urge to live life that way. To dive into writing, dive into all that it entails. And I’ll remember the heady craziness that writing is, this lovely terrifying beautiful monster that comforts and loves me and doesn’t let anyone else hurt me.
Maybe this doesn’t make any sense to you. But it does to me.
I keep “forgetting” to write. To schedule it in because it’s important to me. Writing is my passion.
And yet, I keep “forgetting” about it.
How does one forget part of themselves?
It’s pretty damn easy, actually.
I took a year off from writing, to get my head straight. (Life has the effect of screwing one’s head on backwards and upside down.) The year is over.
I regained my passion for writing, the urge to write, the desire to write.
I even started working on my novel a few times over the past few months.
But I’m still missing some key ingredient.
I haven’t quite connected all the dots.
At least I’ve wrapped my heart, mind, and soul around writing authentically. So taking the year off worked its magic.
However, I keep having these false starts. I’m steadily (via the false starts) getting through a list of edits, answering questions, and deciding on some changes. Perhaps they’re not false starts. Maybe I’m just starting back to writing really, really slowly.
The key ingredient seems to be finding time to focus on things I’d like to focus on. Easier said than done.
I’ll find that dot eventually, right?
What is your passion? Do you have a problem with fitting it in? Do you ever “forget” part of yourself? Any missing dots?
Do you ever get tired?
Tired of non-stop to-do lists on paper and playing over and over again in your head. Constantly on the move. And when you are home and have some time, you’re using it to do something else you’re responsible for or have become responsible for or feel you’re responsible for doing right this very moment (usually the latter). Never a moment to sit and relax. And I mean fully relax. As in, not thinking/worrying about something you could be doing, should be doing, need to be doing, etc. instead of sitting down and breathing.
I get exhausted.
I go and go and go and go until I start dragging my feet and feeling sick and start wondering, once again, why I’m not enjoying life.
I think I forget to breathe.
I forget I’m allowed to enjoy life.
I feel like I should have some obligations to myself too.
I mean, it’s my life. I exist, right?
And not just to make others happy, help others with their business ventures, help others with their lives.
I matter, too, right? Following that train of thought, my life matters too.
So I believe actively deciding some responsibilities to myself is healthy, needed. And I think often times we forget this.
And not to nitpick or be sexist or whatever, but I believe women especially suffer themselves under this way of life.
Men go to work, come home, and have some down time. Even if they hang around with their children or take some time to help out around the house or spend time with their partner. Regardless, they know they worked hard and they deserve some down time, some time to relax.
I’m sure there are men that do this too (keep going, no down time), especially those who have taken on the “mothering” role or whatever. (I’m not big on labels or strict societal rules of “men – grrr, women – squeak”.)
But I feel like the more nurturing the person, the more compassionate and concerned with the affairs of others they are, the more likely they are to neglect themselves.
As if I have to validate my very existence by constantly doing something for someone else or actively working on something the world deems work. (As in, not writing.)
I’m allowed that time to relax. I work at work, I work from home, I help with my family, I have other obligations with time restraints. But dammit, after that, I deserve, have the right, to relax. To enjoy. To do something for fun. Something only for fun. To have an identity based on my own self rather than only the percentage of myself which does for others.
I’m not sure if I’ve shared this or not, but there’s a phrase I like.
You are a human being, not a human doing.
The point is, sometimes I can just breathe, and be.
Misery is optional.