I have a nasty habit. A destructive, cruel and mean streak that flays skin.
That damages the soul.
A habit that finds the weak spaces and places and, like molten lava on bare land, burns chaos into being.
I hold myself up to the blinding light of what I think I should be, must be, have to be, and am meant to be – for others.
Never for myself. Never valuing me. Who I am – above who others think I am.
I guess that the very act of acknowledging the glitch in the process is the first step to healing?
The story you have for me, is not the story I have for me.
And my story of me is what is important.