Please pardon my lack of polish in this writing.
It was written primarily in a five minute brain dump with some editing for (hopefully) clarity as I continue to work through the process of rewriting (rethinking, recrafting, resculpting) my life narrative.
In making this commitment to rewrite my narrative – to let go of any aspects of it that cause me harm or keep me from being a complete expression of myself – I am sailing way out of any semblance of safe harbor with this one.
I am wholeheartedly devoted to bring this to light, to stop the memory of having even the tiniest splinter of control over who I am now and what I bring to the world via my life work. Doing this publicly keeps me on course. It is helpful to know people may find some form of cathartic experience through the words I present here.
“No person is your friend who demands your silence, or denies your right to grow.”
It was one of those “things” those incidences I talk about that happened ten years ago that contributed to the wall I built stone by stone, thought by thought that became more and more difficult to deconstruct.
To be called a best friend and then stop communicating when most needed? What friend or even kind stranger does that?
This is not a friend. This is an abuser.
This is a long coated grey wolf growling and spewing while blanketing himself in the soft, downy fur of a gentle sheep’s clothing.
This is someone espousing spiritual principals who doesn’t intimately know any of basics beyond self-importance.
I suppose for some self-importance is a spiritual principal, but for the wide-eyed lover of humanity I tend to be, I couldn’t see the fangs of ego, the disturbing breath of self-centeredness when I was up close.
I saw the curly softness, the close attention to who I was, the curiosity and what felt like connection which was actually not unlike the hunting methods of a wolf. I couldn’t see these qualities, I just knew the profound ache the hunter left in its wake.
I gave myself five minutes to write this and my hands sit, in front of the keyboard, unwilling to move anymore.
They don’t want to go where it would be best to go in order to leave this poison behind because the risk of poking around in the depth of that pain feels like too much to attempt without a sherpa.
The timer goes off, very few words written.
I will return to complete this cycle.
I will be so grateful to scrape the last scrap off my plate.
Any power this brutish beast has held will be finished. It will be exhilarating. It will be enlivening. It will be freeing beyond my current understanding of what freedom means.