Finding a home and truly living in it are two different things.
In my experience, it took almost twenty years to teach her she didn’t need to flinch when I reached for her. It took fifteen years for her to figure out she no longer needed to lie to survive. It took ten years to convince her I was happy with the body she had. It took five years for her to believe I wasn’t going to leave.
Turns out, learning to be loved can be the work of a lifetime.
i like seeing your sensitive, vulnerable side.
Oddly enough, I feel far more vulnerable when I’m being cruel. After all, while I’m proud of my writing and the pleasure/relief/edification it provides others, I’m not at all proud of the crap in my head that makes it possible. But it’s there, and it ain’t going away, so I’m focused on doing something useful with it In public, for some reason.
…
I’m just saying, letting people watch me try to turn shit into gold can be nerve-wracking.