I'm more alive than I've ever been. Reaching this place in my journey has involved recognizing, acknowledging, and accepting that I have more anger inside of me than I was ever willing to admit. Accessing that anger made it possible to contact and connect with deeper pains. And while much inspiration has come from my pain, the creative expression of it has felt more gruesome than useful, the aftermath of ink on paper more akin to a slasher film than that of a successful surgery.
Am I writing for you or for myself? Having gone through what I've gone through, I want it to minister to you, and I also want to be validated by the value you place on what I share. But I've been arrogant. Afraid to bleed, while still inviting you to do so. Or maybe, afraid that if I show my wounds, nothing will come out of them, at least not anything capable of caring for yours. So I ask you to be real, and while I long for a deep connection, I withhold my self: my anger, my pain, and maybe worse yet, my joy.
For that, I'm sorry. Can we try again? I want to be seen and known, and accepted and loved, same as you. And I'm really gonna need your help.
