Revealing myself.

Insomnia brings us together once again. Maybe the mood to write in this more private me-centered space accompanies the insomnia? Who knows. Maybe the sleepies just make me reflective.

But here I am indeed. Last time we were heading into the second half of September’s eclipse season, and I can’t recall what happened the day of. I didn’t contact anyone in any medium (social media, phone, email…) the day of or the day after, which is very strange for me. Suppose I was feeling thinky. Perhaps emo.

I’ve been in my apartment for over a year, things blend together.

Health things are the same. I wish I had more to report. Back to the neurologist again on Friday for more testing. Vee shall see. Income’s still tricky business, but I’m keeping the faith. Started the ol’ creative services business back up with a little luck. Other pending financial solutions. (Send juju.)

I turn 34 tomorrow! That’s like, no kidding for realsies in your thirties.

I dig it.

This getting older business is awesome. My boobs are starting to run from my face, and my face is starting to run to my boobs––but I don’t really give a fuck anymore, and that’s just increasing by the hour, so all-in-all, AWESOME. I feel like I’m becoming a real person, you know?

The mask I started removing via starting this blog way back when now startles me when I become aware of its presence. I still fall into fear, and into old defensive behaviors as a result–but I don’t fall for long, and it’s jilting when it happens. All fucking day long errrr’day, how did I used to that?? Exhausting.

I feel like getting older has taught me how to give myself permission to accept myself as I am. My sass mouth is fine. My jiggly belly is fine. My intense spirituality is fine. I’m fucking fabulous, and if you don’t like it–c’est la vie, can’t vibe with everyone, buh bye. It’s sooooo much easier. My head’s a much more pleasant and productive place too, and the people in my life know the shit out of me and still love me as I am.

I have nothing to hide. It’s wonderful.

I had a halloweenie birthday party last Friday and was discovering that a fellow Juneauite (name for those who hail from my hometown) friend also has completely random visions of the future, and I was laughing and looking around at all of the beautiful badasses in my apartment, and realized that I felt safe, safe in a way that I’ve never known (in the company of others).

Not due to the fault of friends past, but due to my hiding from them. I didn’t give them a chance to really see or know me, because I didn’t want to know what I had stuffed down in there. I didn’t want to experience the depths of my emotions. I didn’t want to know the extent of this spiritual fascination. I didn’t want to know the root of my health ailments. I didn’t want to know just how bonkers my ambitions are.

I didn’t want anything but what I wanted, but my obsession with getting it was ironically what kept it at bay.

What I wanted was to feel understood and accepted, so I hid the things I felt wouldn’t be, hiding parts more important than I knew. And on top wanting the understanding and the acceptance–I just wanted to feel truly loved. Duh. It’s all any of us want at the end of the day.

But who will love you for all that you are if you don’t even reveal who that is?

They can’t. If you hide from you, then you can’t help but hide from everyone else. And we can’t love what we don’t know. ‘Tis impossible.

Like licking your elbow.

 

 

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