I quit blogging. I thought I was blogging so that maybe something I shared could help others. Since I've stopped, I've discovered I blog to help me. I write to help me. I draw to help me.
You see, my person can only contain so much. The outer edges of my being has been stretched to full capacity with the horrors I've lived through. I've never discovered how to fully let go of all the hurt, the pain, the fear, the insecurity that stemmed from years of abuse. And so the outer edges of my being have remained stretched.
There's a big problem with this. If your already full, stretched to full capacity, there is not room for the good things when they finally begin to happen in your life. You see the good, you want to embrace the good, but there just isn't any room in your being for that.
Along with the good comes fear. An indescribable fear. I seek to sabotage it all before it all falls apart. I can not hurt anymore. I'm already stretched to full capacity.
The sabotage begins to work and once again stress enters. But, I'm full, stretched to full capacity.
And suddenly I'm waking in the middle of the night, screaming, remembering. Dreams where past and present blur and my darkest fears become realities. I'm frantically looking for the drawing pad and pastels I've not touched in more months then I can count. Frantically snatching at pens and paper. Finding the outlet I must have. In the night I write and draw. In the day, with the bustle of life around, with children playing and husband's voice in the background, I type. I sit before my computer, family assuming that I'm paying bills or checking important emails, and I type. Letting out the good, the stress, the daily things that I have no room for.
And inside I'm silently screaming. Longing to be set free.
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