My doubts and insecurities weigh a million pounds and I am burdened by my own self in ways no one could ever burden me.
I ask myself if I am doing enough to make up for the time I lost to illness. Am I doing enough to make up for the life my sister never got to live. Am I doing enough to save the lives of kids who remind me so much of myself I go home and cry on Thursday nights because I am afraid.
I am afraid.
I am afraid you will hate me because I am gay. I am afraid you will hate me because I am bipolar. I am afraid you will hate me because I hated myself for so long I am blinded to the fact that maybe I am loveable.
And I know it is bullshit. But at the same time I don’t. I don’t know. I can sit in a room full of nearly 50 people who have gathered to celebrate the impending birth of my daughter and the next day feel so alone the tears sneak up when I am least expecting them.
I have to fight myself at times like this. I have to look for the evidence and say out loud to myself “That thought is bullshit and here is why.”
Because there is a part of myself who hates that I am gay. There is a part of myself that hates that I am bipolar. There is a part of myself that hates that I am vocal about these things.
I can be surrounded by so much love it is blinding and at the same time shut my eyes and refuse to see it.
The desire to push away the very thing I need seeps into my pores and I hate you for loving me because it means I have to keep on learning how to love myself.
Because there are scars deep within me no one can ever see. Years of lies whispered by illness have seeped into the deepest part of me and left their mark.
I am not unscathed.
But scars fade.
I have scars, both those one can see and those which are invisible to anyone but myself, but they are healing.
I have to believe they are healing.
I have to believe that every time I refute the lies that sneak into my head, or refuse to hold court with the thought at all my scars become more faded and less severe.
Because there are times I lovingly hold the pain in my grasp and wish for it to stay.
Because it is easier to clench tightly to the wounds which have shaped me and allow them to have more say than they deserve.
Because I refuse to let this control me.
Because I am loved beyond belief.