The feeling that my life is my own, that my day is owned by me, settles back into me slowly as sleep comes night after night. My life, my choices, those feelings fly away so easily throwing me off-balance. Sometimes this is just life, other times it is caused by me. Anxiety rises, whirling me like a dervish, lost, scared, out of balance, and un-centered. Floundering, no place is home.

Home. Home is in me.  When not respecting my real needs, forgetting them, wishing they weren’t there, wanting an escape, wanting something unnecessary, or more than what is already there, the security holding me safe escapes.  The surety of needs being met is up to me to insure. The power to stay in the safety of me, is up to me.

When taking on too much, it is sure to cause a flight from home. The reality of long term PTSD is so hard to swallow and digest. My continual refusal to accept this causes flaring up of it which upsets sleep patterns, and the ability to stay in the moment, and in my home.

Being outside my body throughout my life, living life without really living it… being who others thought me to be, not really being me? What kind of life is that? I want to live before I die. I want to live with all of me, loving me, my interior a soft place to fall, warm, caring, and fully accepting of all of me.


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