I’ve been spilling my heart to a screened in world, letting my wound drip onto the newsfeed of strangers. Shall I mop it up? Shall I apologize for the mess? Is it wrong of me to be so unfiltered?
Why...oh why do I care? To be seen, to be heard. Why must pain be seen and heard? What is this desire to scream? And how do I filter out the victim story? And rearrange my delicate feelings into words? And squeeze myself to fit into societies norms?
I must stand up taller...there are people watching. Students waiting. People need inspiration. Heal Bridget. Learn and find the wisdom and grow. Heal. But, “I can’t”, small me says. “I don’t want to . It’s so comfy here. Familiar. And...he’s here. In my pain. So I hold on to it. So I can hold on to him.”
My higher self waits patiently and lovingly as little Bridget refuses to let go.
I am not responsible for what you think of me. And yet, I am responsible for the message I bear for this world.
Just trying to make sense of this human life and let my stories breath outside of my body.