I like laughter and people who prefer it. I have a very hard time respecting my mother’s choices, because I love her dearly. She makes choices reflective of what she believes she deserves; I think she is very tired.
Doesn’t she know I’m tired too?
I struggle with asking for help. I dig holes for myself to hide in at any sign of confusion and then I sit, anxiously, in the hole wondering why no one is worried about my whereabouts. I feel shame when others see me fail, guilt with any glance of concern. Yet I yearn to be cared for.
I’m so very much more sensitive than I care to admit. Why should I have to be seen as weak when I could be much weaker?
I’d love to have lovely camaraderie. I’m cruel when I fail to leave the house, I have a fear of wasting life, that there might be something better. How are we supposed to be?
I really like the stoics and folk music. I would rather not assume the worst. My highest self believes in vulnerability. She wears a woodsy, warm perfume and seizes the morning.
I forgive myself for all the careless things I’ve done because I didn’t realize I am somebody I should take serious. My best days consist of that which makes me proud to be me.