I’m mining these words out of me in dark chunks, jagged as coal. They’re not soft or easy or even clear. They’re just rough chunks, and I’m hoping that by mining, I’ll be emptied of this toxic seam, and fill the space with light; loving, living light.
Maybe it’s because we relocated and lived in the woods for seven years. But now that I’m back, I see clearly the vast energy my family puts into keeping the alcoholic/addict family members somewhat functioning, for the appearance of normal. My choice became accept or betray. Do I live to be true to myself, or accept the family script that includes decades of enabling? I chose my truth. Doing so has left me feeling punched down and alone.
When I don’t know what action to take, I pretend I’m 83-years-old and I’m looking back at this period. This is what I saw. An open square. And inside it is a dot. And that dot is me. And that square delineates my boundaries. Inside I’m safe. It’s where I create, where I write, where I paint. The square feels free. So that’s what my 83-year-old self is telling my 60-year-old self. Make that space. Live in that space. So I am.