This morning wake, I didn’t anticipate that there would be an internal struggle. As I have lain with my mind drifting in and out from last evening reading aloud to my sweetie “The Yellow House” by Sarah Broom, I reflected on my own life.

My mind and body are dominated, often by outside sources like a spouse, clients, family, friends, and society as a whole. I try desperately to handle the emotions that surface when a ping of pain cringes my insides, possibly bludgeoning my eyes somewhat because of a memory that emerges from what someone else might say. I cannot quite put my mind on exactly why, but I know it’s a natural trajectory that nudges me into saying something and lose my mind and blurt out exactly what I am thinking.

Here I am, trying desperately to change my heathen ways, no longer running and digesting a wine cooler or crown royal to soothe the memory. No. I have to deal with the emotion(s), and often I know nothing but rage.

As I close my eyes to type this reflection that mirrors that of little Lynda, she knows to recover she cannot run, all though she has that option. But, she knows there will never be a change if she does. What will happen if she speaks her truth? What will happen if she continues to trudge through the pain she so desperately wants to ignore? Does she even know what the pain is?

It’s one step at a time and a moment at a time without mood-altering substances. I keep in mind not to ignore myself because I’m relevant,  have a reason to live a purposeful life, and deserve to heal and to have a life worth living, and for that, I am genuinely grateful.