recycled paper

My mom gave me a journal for Christmas made of only recycled paper. It’s bumpy and dirty and hard to write on but there’s something really precious in seeing only a small sliver of a past creation and creating something new atop it.

I spent majority of December horizontal. I was on a roller coaster, made of only scraps and spare parts, kindly donated to create a thrill. My pain felt so thick, yet so fragile, like a fire-burned knife held to a frozen stick of butter. I spent half of December taking care of myself and the other half trying (and failing) not to. I am usually sub-par when it comes to taking care of myself. I used to believe it would take too much energy. Then I did it for two whole weeks. I did nothing for anyone else—I did not restart someone’s heart, or hold a recently widowed fragile hand, or carefully and gently redress and debride a burn wound—I did nothing for anyone except for myself and I had so much energy. *Exhausted energy, for sure, but a capacity for emotional and mental strength like I’ve never known. Holy wow, was that refreshing.

I spent the second half of December trying not to draw attention to myself. Trying not to notice the way I felt. To not listen to what I needed. To not be selfish for choosing myself, because it wasn’t supposed to be about me. Throughout my life, I feel like I’ve stolen so much from people because of a surgery, a parasite, an infection, a recent hospitalization—I was so sick and sad from feeling like a dark shadow, dimming all the celebrations with my suffering, that I chose to ignore myself this time. I chose not to care. I chose to silence my body, calm my mind, and just try to be present in the state I was in. And do you know what happened? I panicked. My body completely shut down. My mind and soul began to torture me with anxiety, burning me from the inside out, shaking me like a snow globe. And do you know what? My pain flared with it. It screamed and screeched at me until I fell into a pool of my own tears, melting and mixing into the cool wood floors below me. I was so concerned with not being a burden, an interruption, a disrespect that I literally had a mental breakdown. And now I’m more exhausted than I was before this all started. So what was the fucking point.

Being selfless is something I’m good at. But I learned something on this very difficult holiday, being selfless does not need to equal pain. You do not need to always be in discomfort to experience healing. There is so much room to heal in places where you feel comfortable, safe, warm, welcomed, and loved. Being selfless does not mean you have to place yourself in the “I don’t matter” bin. Being selfless does not mean you are worth less of your own kindness.

Years ago I discovered that I’d rather be understood than liked. What I didn’t realize was that in putting that expectation on other people, it created an insecurity within myself. I have always struggled with being believed. My body responds differently than mosts. It often takes longer to heal, is quicker to get sick, and just has felt rather beat up and worn down for most of my life. What I hadn’t realized I was doing, until perhaps it was too late, was letting others determine how I felt and how I was supposed to act. I set a precent for myself to be the piñata, the silly, loud, explosive, people loving girl, even in the face of pain. It’s not that I’m not this person, it’s that I am *when I’m fully healthy. But by choosing to forever be this person, despite the circumstances, I’ve hefted mounds of pressure and stress upon myself to be the person that I always am. To prove to others that I am not worn out, that they still matter to me, that I can still be mads inside all of this. I was cruel to myself and out of all the opinions, the questions, and the doubts, that hurts the most. That in the face of so much cruelty, I chose to abandon the one part of me that hosts my soul. How should we expect others to choose us, to understand us, to be kind to us if we cannot provide that for ourselves?

Being kind to others is magical. But being kind and gentle to oneself is true wonder. Gentleness is often easier to extend to those farther from you. It is not selfish to choose yourself. You are able to give more of what you choose to receive, whether that be hate or love. And you will receive most from your inner self.

Loving is better than that dark, dark room where not even pain can reach; only deep numbness. You are so, so good.