On Being Human

It’s such an interesting thing, disappearing.

I used to do it so easily, without hesitation or thought, but with persistence; burying myself underneath the needs, wants, and desires of another. I can feel my heart breaking from it, even now. Even now when I’m choosing not to do it. Even now, when I’m choosing it again.

I’ve discovered a new addiction.

One quite common for empaths, mothers, nurturers, those addicted to other people’s pain.

I’ve been addicted to other people’s pain.

It still temps me, especially now that I’m more familiar with its dark ways.

“You must learn to love your darkness the way you love your light,” he said, 

“You must learn to accept and love all of yourself.” 

I can’t pick and choose anymore. Gotta love it, ‘warts and all’. 

For me, part of loving is being honest about it. Going deep into its blackness and pulling it out from the dusty back corner of my mind and heart. The ones I cannot see until they’re pulled into the light, but the power they yield in the dark is much more powerful than I’ve ever had the courage to admit until now. 

What is my addiction, truly?

Look at me, wanting to diagnose already. Naming it does take its power away. 

Knowing does take courage. Getting to know my shadow means not abandoning it for a prettier, shinier object. Sometimes the name takes this knowing away from you. Naming it makes it as though it is already known. Like I have the answer and now I get to lay in my righteousness and get nothing else done. The conquerer.

Oops, my humanity is showing.

There were years of my life for as long as I can remember where I didn’t allow myself to be human. I didn’t allow the people I loved to be human either. Only perfect. Perfect or unloved. I placed my father so high on a pedestal after his death that even I couldn’t reach him; not the real him, not the human one. Only the one I made up in my mind and tortured myself with for years; denying any other love than this perfect one that never truly existed outside of my own mind. 

Until recently. 

Until the past year when I started to remember that my father also gave me my first betrayal. When I started to remember the pain that his love and his temper had caused a younger, little LuLu. The pain that every human who has loved feels.

Life is one continuous shedding. 

A breaking apart and open over and over and over again. 

And the unveiling of a truer, fuller, rawer, more luxuriously human version of you. The kind only geriatrics get to benefit from because they’ve let go of all the bullshit of disconnection.

The pedestal is disconnection.

The righteousness is disconnection.

The perfectionism is disconnection.

The not loving.

The refusal to gaze into the darkness of you.

The refusal to see the love that lives within its depths, desperately calling you to help it rise to the surface for healing.

Writing this feels like surgery.

Energetic surgery.

I’m weeping with pleasure. 

My throat is clenched, wringing out the words it’s held on to so tightly for fear of unlove. 

Clenched and locked up for fear of disconnection. 

Fear that you would take your love away from me.

But you see, this isn’t possible. I know this now. 

The truth is only I have the power to unlove me. 

I can really see now.

I judged my own darkness as ugly, less than, unlovable, unworthy, too much, and shameful.

I see now, her deep, unending beauty and resilience.

I see now, her innocence, true love and courage to see and speak the truth.

She’s resurrecting one last time. 

For tonight.

It’s confusing here too, don’t allow my words to mislead you. 

There’s a chill in the air, it’s lonely, it’s hard to breathe and see; there’s a feeling that something vital may break into unhealable pieces. That’s fear. Naming her offers instant relief though. Fear is a name that is equally certain and uncertain. It’s like, “Oh yeah, I know her, but whoa what’s this?” — she gets bigger, smarter, more clever as she ages.

I can still feel a presence in my throat.

What do you have to say, throat? 

I’m listening.

She says not to hold anymore. 

She says to let go.

She says to Release.

The ways of control are calcifying her tissue, restricting her love and harming vital organs. 

She says to unleash the darkness with kindness, with unconditional love and a listening ear. She says to let it be ugly if it needs to be. She says to let it be raw and open if it needs to be. She says it’s been hurting behind closed doors for such a long time and expectation harms it further. She says to soften your heart, and to soften the hold you have on her. She says to float like the angel that you are while understanding that… being human is the most precious gift there is. 

Every emotion, every drop of blood, every break is all part of the masterpiece of life’s wonder. 

She says to relax. 

Maybe even to, “chill the fuck out,” because her sense of humor is top-notch.

She says, remember what tension does to your body, and the way it feels when you surrender. The euphoria that comes with trusting every day in every way. In every text message and phone call and break up and ending and beginning. Trust in it all, first. Your tension is mistrust. Healing requires trust and perseverance of love over all else. 

Feel your body relax now, hearing this. 

Feel, now, the elevation of your spirit that comes from this relaxation.

Try not to retract and reverse the feeling once you acknowledge it.

Try not to grasp it either.

Allow it to exist within and without.

Remember the way time works in loops.

You’re safe here.

You’re whole here.

You’re love itself here.

You’re yourself here.

And all you have to do is remember to return, again and again.

Go inside, sit down, and remember.

Loving you, LuLu