This is also the loneliness of not feeling seen. The isolation of not following the horde, of not always being understood.
As I began to acknowledge my inner children, see them, hear them and love them, their unmet needs became easier to recognize and they began reaching out to me in healthier, less destructive ways.
Forgiveness is for the forgiver more than it is for the one being forgiven, because you’re the one who carries the weight of the hurt and the anger. You’re the one who is eaten up by it. You’re the one who remains a victim, and the one left feeling powerless and helpless.
Sadly, I can continue with this topic, but for what purpose? Will one emotion eventually outdo the other? Hell, while I’m at it, I could shift topics and list the sadness and anger I feel for myself and for too many of my friends and countless other women around the world who have been abused, ...
Oh, melancholy. How difficult it is to describe you! I write sentences after sentences in hopes of capturing what you really are. The happiness in sadness? The reason behind the whole of life calling for tears? A blissful kind of sorrow? A defense of gloom without depression? A passing grief ...