I am done trying to make myself feel positive and loving, when all I want to do is hide, curl up and cry.
Even telling myself that I am loved, that I am surrounded by love feels intrusive. I’m in mourning because my old self is dying, and the different parts of me are whispering their story, their voices becoming louder when I try to be present.
It feels disrespectful to tell those vulnerable parts something I’m not feeling, for example that I am loved by God. I don’t feel love and I don’t feel belonging. It feels like silencing myself, something my family used to do when I was growing up by mocking my anger, and being blind to the sadness underneath. Positive thinking feels a bit similar to me now, it feels like ridiculing the pain I am going through, shrugging it off with “oh stop it, surely it’s not that bad. Here, have some artificial love instead”. That doesn’t mean I never think positive (without trying) or that I’m never happy. I am, usually about the smallest things. I can feel a surge of excitement when I think about making myself a coffee and reading a good book, watching Sex and the City for the tenth time, writing on a story and getting that feeling of time passing without me noticing, just writing, writing and feeling inspired. But when I sit with myself, and I come across a deep abyss of sadness and pain, the last thing I want to do is look away and smudge some balm over the wound, hoping it will go away by itself. It doesn’t. I need to listen, without judging, without turning it into something different. Now is not the time to try and feel gratitude, abundance or love. I show my love by not turning away, by not whispering sweet words, trying to distract the part of me, the child in me that is wailing and desperate for a hand to hold. I hold her hand and I try to stand what she is showing me, because that is true love.