The Gift Of Nothing.
Living life authentically is a life that invites opposition. Naysayers. Doubters. Haters.
But it’s a choice we make… and make… and falter… and make… and cower from… and then finally, staunchly, commit to. It’s a decision born in the wake of arriving at the inability to choose anything less.
It’s a choice that’s not so much respected, but admired… from afar… secretly… with envy, jealousy and even angst.
It’s a choice that comes from a very personal, usually buried, exceptionally complicated place; a burning, repressed ember, encompassing a shredded, hidden map.
This choice doesn’t make us weak; it makes us strong. It doesn’t mean we’re incapable of following the norm; it just means we were never built or destined for that.
It doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with us; it means there’s everything right with us.
I pulled the Father of Cups card for myself this morning — feminine, artistic, supportive, thriving, but very insecure, which is the only thing holding him back. Nailed it.
That’s always been the only thing holding me back — my deep-seated insecurities. Insecurities that were born of another time and place and energy. Born in a hell not of my own making. Born of a darkness which I illuminated.
A darkness I raged against and broke and shattered; the remnants that remain are all that’s left of a life I barely recognize. A life whose dots I can no longer connect. A life that I have a hard time believing was ever mine.
Words, screams, tears, isolation. Shadows, phantoms, nightmares, paralysis.
I may never stop writing this out.
The waking night terrors may never stop. A simple touch may have to always be processed.
This will all fade with time. I have to remind myself I’m still so freshly out the gate. This assimilation — of who I was, who I am and who I will be — is still ongoing.
Reconciling the parts of me that I love, with the parts of me that were shamed, is a daily struggle.
On the good days, these thoughts are light years away from my heart and mind. On stressful days, the smallest trigger can ignite an avalanche, mixing fire and ice with detachment and self-loathing.
It all depends on the day.
Everything does, and it still stupefies me as to how quickly things can change, from one second to one day to one week to the next.
Six months ago feels like a life that may have been mine, but the more I think about it, the less I recognize it. And the less I recognize it, the more I realize my capacity to change and grow and heal.
The faster the healing comes, the stronger the tides of fire rise up to both challenge and purify.
This is how we unravel, reclaim, and begin the seemingly impossible journey of loving and accepting and adoring ourselves.
I’m finding the key is to welcome the fiery waves, because it was me, after all, who invited them. I chose to confront them. I chose to say goodbye to them.
I chose to welcome my death; a funeral for that tired little girl and her endless uphill war.
A funeral’s a celebration though. We lose sight of that. A funeral can be a beautiful thing, calling to mind the heart of the journey; the victories; how we prevailed; those we touched; what we overcame and of course, who we became.
The legacy we left behind — our spiritual legacy. Our mark. Our purpose and all that came of it.
This is the warrior’s journey; the path of those born into something so twisted, so wretched and incomprehensible.
Yet, it was these atrocities that offered the very fodder to become something so much more than the decimated foundation we started with.
We were given the ultimate opportunity to make something from nothing… even less than nothing.
The higher we rise, the more it bears testament to our universal spirit, our unshakable will, our strength that — although tested — remains bulletproof.
These words are my strength. Continuing to write and share them is my resolute will.
And rising to meet each day not out of habit, but out of an insatiable hunger to live, experience, explore and love everything I can bears testament to my spirit.
It is in this space that we find the gift in being reduced to rubble:
We become our own makers.
We become our own masters.
We become our magic.
And we become all that we never were and create all that we never had.
These things are worth every terrifying night, every flashback, every fight, every choked sob, every bottomless thought that there’s no possible way I can survive this.
I did. You can. We WILL. We ARE.