A letter to myself

Anxiety.

No. That's not anxiety dearest. That's your creativity. Trapped.

It's roiling in your gut like bile. Trapped in your throat like mute screams.

Like demons inside clawing, demanding. Why don't you give birth to us?

They need to be born. They aren't really demons you know. They are the progeny of your heart and mind. You know this deep down. You feel the way you do because you have ignored the true signals of your body and assigned something frightening to them. But they aren't frightening. They are your creations.

Keeping them inside is unhealthy and unnatural. To resist giving birth is impossible. To try to keep them inside is not only to kill them, but to kill yourself too. Giving birth requires strength and courage. You resist too hard. You fight against what you should be surrendering to. Surrender to giving birth to this offspring of your spirit.

You have spent so much time swallowing them down. Repressing them. RUNNING from them. Investing yourself in your masks. In the illusion that you are calm and peaceful. That you are always there for everyone. That you are selfless. That you are a "good woman". A do-er. A hard worker. A striver. The illusion of the woman society thinks you should be. Maybe the illusion of the woman you think you should be.

Maybe it's an addiction. To constant self-improvement. To learning. To searching. To striving. But these are all good things, aren't they? Not when taken to the extreme. Too much and they become addictions to suffering. To anxiety. To never being good enough. To resistance. They become mechanisms to resist what is by always seeking what could be or what you think should be.

Be who you are, where you are and accept yourself. That's it. Start there.