Struggling mightily with my "inner critic" today. Childhood memories with tentacles attached to my spirit, telling me that I am not, and never will be, enough. And, that I am too much. Too disorganized, too volatile, too emotional, too needy, too difficult, too unbalanced, too damaged, too late...too everything to actually get my shit together. Like there's too much to put in the suitcase, and it keeps popping open with all my shit flying everywhere. Like I seem to keep forgetting to bring my passport, even though I was so sure I had it. Knowing where this all comes from doesn't always matter...what I've survived, what an accomplishment it is to just be walking and talking. The part of me that needs compassion and the part of me that can give it don't seem to see eye to eye today. All I can do is feel. This, today, is my art.
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