"Stay in our bubble; 
  there are monsters outside."

So I did, and with all 
  of my heart, I tried--

until finally, 
  I just couldn't breathe.

So I went out…

  and I was free.

No monsters here;
  just fresh air.

The monstrous place
  was the one back there.

In the notebook

You're the Peeta to my Katniss.
We're Hermione and Ron.
You're the Kristoff to my Anna.
We're Arwen and Aragorn.

Both heroes in our own right,
with gifts and struggles each,
we join our paths for joy and love
with every realm we reach.

In the notebook

May your sun rise 
  on easier times,
    your dark clouds 
      fade to blue--
compassion to you 
  who hold so much
    with no one 
      holding you.

In the notebook

some simple words to help me learn this concept…because I didn’t learn it growing up

My trust is a treasure
  (I finally see),
    not to give
      but guard.

I'll gladly share it--
  but only when
    I deem it safe
      from harm.

In the notebook

No, it's not perfect, 
  but it's my best-guess
    best option, 
until 
  there's a clear 
    better one.

So I take it, 
  like a torch, 
    to brandish at shadows
of self-doubt, 
  fear, 
    and control-delusion.

In the notebook

This life did not come with a map
   (they gave me one;
   it turned out wrong)--
so I have to make it up,
updating it as I go,
sometimes just throwing 
it out and starting fresh.
With time and courage, less
and less my map leads
   me into pits; 
more and more to what I need,
   to what fits
for this life
to feel like mine.

In the notebook

It literally does not matter
what anyone else may think
about the story of your life.
Don't write it with their ink.

In the notebook

Maybe I don't even know
what strength my power pack holds within--
I'm accustomed to it running low
from letting everyone else plug in.

In the notebook

There's a kind of enduring
  hard moments and tasks
    that’s not the same at all
as the kind of enduring—
  helpless and alone—
    we did when we were small.

I learned to suppress
  my feelings and needs
    and pretend everything was fine.
You learned that there
  was no one anywhere
    who cared about your cries.

Now we’re grown
  and in the grind,
    but we have points of choice—
to recognize our options
  and respond 
    to our own voice. 💗

In the notebook

I wrote this poem to help myself sort out the difference between enduring hard moments now—say, when one of my kids is melting down while the others also need things, and I need to eat and use the bathroom—versus in my past, when my needs utterly did not matter and were even perhaps sinful, according to the hellfire and brimstone preaching I heard every day. I’m also thinking of close friends who are likewise on journeys of healing from traumatic developmental years.

I’m including a sentence from my preceding journal entry, in which I was starting to explore this stuff. It reads: “So while I may, in the difficult moment, practice some amount of shutting down my reactivity and suppressing my needs until I can attend to them, I am doing so with strategic awareness and BGBO [best-guess best option] coping, not self-abandonment.”

Thank you for witnessing this moment of my healing journey. Does it resonate with you at all?

I flattened myself like a tray,
balancing with skill
other's fragile cups of feelings,
so they wouldn't spill.

The strain of that life broke me.
Now I'm trying to realign
my pieces as a sturdy mug
for feelings that are mine.

I used a variation of that photo on a recent “Writer’s Waters” post, so here’s another photo of sleepy Papaya (under my desk at my office):

In the notebook

We can't know the future,
but my worry-shaped brain
keeps bracing for trouble--
and keeps me in pain.

We can't know the future,
so it might be great--
if I don't let anxiety
curse my fate.

In the notebook

I always tried intensely 
to seem on top of things
and able to take care of others,
so they'd be at ease--

and I truly did care
about them, and I still do--
but now I'm coming down to earth
where I have needs, too.

Who am I if I'm not the one
who's competent and stout?
What happens if I'm just...me?
I don't know...but let's find out. 

In the notebook

I'm creaky like an old door,
   croaky like a frog;
my energy's down on the floor;
   my brain is filled with fog.

     Here I'll be
        with my tea
     till my wind
        blows again.

In the notebook

Downtime--when the toil halts--
I need it like a song needs
a downbeat. All the day's assaults
otherwise will flatten me.

(I lived like that, just flat, so long,
not knowing how to rest so I 
could rise.) Return to home, my song--
recover and reset my mind.

In the notebook

You see yourself the way they treated you--
bothersome, worthless as dust, perverse--
but you shine far above them in my view--
a unique light in this dark universe.

     You had to drink their disgust.
     Now they can eat your stardust.

In the notebook

When your inner waters are surging white,
blinding and choking you fast,
I'm here to reach a hand to you--
I don't mind getting splashed--

but I do mind when you try to drag
me under with your blame,
saying it was my fault that 
your flash-flood feelings came.

The only waters I must tend
are my children's and my own.
I'm here to help you, but 
your river's care is yours alone.

In the notebook

Like midsummer's humid air,
my self-doubt fog is dense today.
Drops of shame stick to my skin;
worry vapor enervates
my mind. Have I screwed things up?
Is So-and-so displeased with me?
My spirit sags--I need a breeze
of fresh, cool rationality.

In the notebook

I know, little sprite--
  you've been blamed and shamed
just for being your magical self,
 dropping sparkles everywhere
instead of hiding on your shelf
  the way they wanted.
It's not your fault
  they didn't understand your heart.
Let's find a way to help you heal
  and nurture your enchanted art.

In the notebook

You get to Choose
            yes Or no,
          with No pressure
              or Strings attached--the end.
                   Either choice is fine,
           and No one else can choose it for you--
                  This is what consent means, my friend.

In the notebook

 In a land of codependence,
   we've got blurry lines and creeping
   fingers in each other's feelings,
   trying to pull each other's strings--
the language of relating is control.

 Let's find interdependence land:
   we'll make consent our highest guide,
   each mind entitled to decide,
   separate, equal, side by side--
with mutual wellbeing as the goal.

In the notebook