It can be scary to accept yourself and perhaps it should be. Fear and excitement are the same depending on how you explain it to yourself and testing your strength is exhilarating which naturally is frightening. It’s like knowing the answer to a question you don’t want to ask because you know the answer isn’t what other people think it is. Especially if you have been raised to be pleasing.
Then a day comes when you can look back long and hard.
There are not as many tomorrows as there once were and you have to solidify. I’m grateful for my job, my couch, and my arms. For the nice weather, the internet, and coffee. I’m grateful l can still see, still hear, still sing and move and that I handled everything thrown at me so far. I have loved and hurt and I’m healing. My wounds are just more tattoos. Intelligent people don’t have friends and lovers are only mildly entertaining. In another world, at another time I am Suzy Homemaker and head of the PTA. In still another, stalking alleyways for chumps with drugs. In this one, I am me and blossoming is messy. It’s scary, accepting that you’re the villain in the story.

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