I give myself permission to smile, to cry, to take the time to heal. I give myself permission to be … I am far from perfect, but I don’t need to be.
It should not be you, or you, or you who tells me who to be, what to wear, to eat, to drink, how to speak, what to think. Those decisions are mine and mine alone.
I don’t need to be pretty, I don’t need to be thin, I don’t need to aspire to fame, or fortune or glory.
If I want to bake, I can bake.
If I want to write, I can write.
If I want to paint or draw or sing or dance or walk or run or fly; I have those rights, I own those rights and no, you can no longer take them from me.
I am allowed to be me in all my glorious imperfections. I don’t have to be a butterfly to be reborn.
I have been learning to cry. I was never very good at that. Crying is weak. Or was, so I thought. You hear that men don’t feel they can cry, well it is the same for some women too. I realise now that I don’t cry deeply, that I don’t know how to grieve and that there are so many parts of my life where I have needed to be present emotionally but have not. So I don’t let go. I don’t mourn as I should mourn, grief stays with me, resides as a permanent physical pain.
They sit there, all those moments. I have a boulder of moments lodged in the earth that is me. With breath and salty tears, in time that boulder will erode.
I’m trying now. I’m learning. To sit with the pain, to acknowledge and accept it. When I feel myself slipping away with my habitual safety mechanism of dissociation, I can now pull myself back into the moment.
It is strange to think that I am falling asleep with tear-stained cheeks and a soggy pillow now, but I am doing it with acceptance and peace.
This is new.
This may be the way.
I give myself permission to explore this; to be as encrusted in salty tears as I need to be.
And I wonder when those quiet rivers subside who the little girl at the end may be. A curiosity is arising within now.
With willing hands and a half smile, I give myself permission to be.