Oh for the love: reflections on a meltdown

I wrote this a while back while in the midst of a melt down…on a search for why why why I’m so crazy…I don’t think I come to any conclusions…as usual.

When denial has finally found its way out the back door and the sinking reality of life settles underneath your skin…it’s like I can feel piece by piece the shattering in my heart and my bones. I can feel it all. I hear it and I know it’s coming. When it all comes down to it, isn’t it all just about worth? My worthiness. My unworthiness. How much I love and how much others love me, and how I’m so unsure of it all. That’s what my falling, sinking, shattering is about mostly. I want to be enough. For everything and everybody. I want to be worthy of love and belonging. But comparison really is the thief of joy. Absolute thief. It murders my confidence and steals my joy. And that’s what I spend most of my time leading up to a melt down doing. comparing. Everything. You name it, I compare it. And it’s normally when I forget to be kind and gentle with myself and my heart and soul. I forget that I have to love myself and care for myself the most. I know I have this attitude that comes with the flawed person that I am, it’s this attitude that I have To take care of me and that accepting help is shameful and bad and means there must be something wrong with me. I wish I didn’t have that flaw. I wish I didn’t judge people. I wish I would listen more and talk less. I wish that my heart was more forgiving of itself and in turn more forgiving to others. I wish I didn’t let others get me down and that I really didn’t regret anything. I wish that caring for someone wasn’t so entirely terrifying to me. I wish those things.
But I also accept these things: I am completely and utterly flawed. I have wounds that may always make me stumble, I have scars and tattoos and I eat a lot of carbs and sugar. I want more tattoos. I like the f word a whole lot. I grew up in a home where life was not perfect. Where things were sticky and messy and broken and I carry those things with me. The good and the bed. I also know that they make me a compassionate, empathetic person who is able to love people so much. I couldn’t relate to others if I wasn’t shattered like so many are. If I wasn’t horribly insane and kind of crazy. I’ve always thought that it would be cool to have Jesus just here as my friend because he seems like he would really understand all of the buckets of stuff we all carry around. He would listen and be kind and sit quietly with us. Maybe that’s the greatest gift we can give to each other. Just to listen and be kind. And then just be happy. Accept life as this swirling messy wave of uncertainty and be so happy that we don’t have to do it alone. That’s all I want.
We melt down because we have to. I don’t quite know the point yet, but I’m so certain its necessary. I think. And it’s also beautiful. It forces us to be present and see and feel and touch the things and people in our lives that are real and here and now.

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