I cry. I contribute.

I find myself crying. With the ease of my own fragility, my sadness and pain bubble to my surface. Squeezing my chest and throat, tightness of breath, fear flaring my nostrils, tears rising salt sting into the corners of my eyes. I have no controls these days, moments; no mechanism to pull, turn, or switch.

Still, I act. My mind, neuro-not-typical, its beautiful intelligence, rapid fire thoughts, abundance of acts. I perform at length, all day. I prepare myself for routine and cope ahead for impromptu. While I must plan to eat, nourishment also comes with impulse.

When I can, I reach. My heart, velvety vulnerable, genuinely flawed, desires to connect, contribute. I avail my self, my love, my beloved ones. Wealth of a simple message from the heart, to the ones who it beats for.

Missives of validation, gratitude, affirmation, adoration. A reminder. Each message, it’s not an expectation, not a tacit request. It is an effort at contribution. An act of creation.

A world in which I can cry and still contribute.

I'm Not Here For You

I’m not here to please. I’m here to find peace.

I’m not available to be used. I’m here now free, but it’s happened before.

I’m not expected to be or do. I’m here to be and do what my heart desires.

I’m not going to submit or be silent. I’m here to speak up, give voice, evolve.

I’m not here for any reason but heart. Forever fallible, forgiving forevermore.

Time. And Again.

Insight Timer. A friend sent that my way and I return to it in each time of need. Even if that return is fraught with the memory of imploring myself to return each day, not only each desperation. Still, I return in my own time.

Acceptance. Another thing I return to. Maybe rarely by choice. Always find myself here, wishing I wasn’t. Emotional mind declaring I’ll never return; rational mind drawing up the plans. Still, I find myself back here time and again.

Meditation and acceptance are hard for my mind. It’s so swift, turbulent. Breaking channels and flooding its banks. Insight Timer finds me a guide. My guide brings my consciousness life-rafts, guided meditations are paddles in the whitewash. When times are desperate and derelict, survival depends on a well-timed guide to make it through the mind’s most frightening rapids.

My guide today took me through a visual trip—down a lane, through a gate, to a meadow, through a woodland, into a clearing. Along the way, my guide told me to unload my heavy bag of rocks. To place them one-by-one into a receptacle for relief. Each rock I imagined was labeled and painted according to its meaning to me. I imagined the weight of those stony memorials to pain and loss; all disarmingly small, but astonishingly heavy. I accepted what they meant to me. The dark colors and scary labels. Their cold, hard, rough surfaces. I held each one—placed it and then sent it away. Deliberate release. While the stain of memories remains, the weight on my mind was momentarily gone. I imagined it. Told my brain what it looked and felt like. Knowing my brain’s wiring—my brain saw what I told it to see and my brain felt what I told it to feel.

I walked each step my guide proffered. Invoking the sunlight playing through leaves. Noticing the sprinkles of flower that dot the path, decorating all the deep green. Sensing the clean and cool of air that was cleaner and cooler than the actual air being inhaled. Each exhale, as my guide lead, I reached calm release. I arrived at the time to memorialize my calm, to make memorial to its existence.

I envisioned my small edifice of Peace. Made of smooth, cool veiny quartz, rose-colored, heart-shaped. I chose a site for its small sanctuary on the side of my mind’s banks. A sandcastle of calm and peace. Placement that acknowledges impermanence. Construction that commits to recreation.  

I will return often to this small shrine. I will come with my guide. I will leave my weights. I will dig out my Peace. I will rebuild its seat. Time. And again.

Your Bill (of Rights) is Due

Reading, reading, ever reading.

News and politics. Constant inputs. 

 Contextualize and personalize.

Historical hypocrisy.  Contemporary contradictions.

Some rights were won. Labeled inalienable.

All rights are still being hard fought. Inalienable only if liable.

To fight, summon courage to overcome complacency.

Must beat the fear that roots the silence. 

It costs to stand up. Bravery is vulnerability.  

Today, the bill is due.  You want change?

Pay the balance for yourself, see what change you get back.

Stigma Unspoken

Something about some of us is just too much for most people. It’s sensible, rarely spoken.

We can get close because there is spirit to us that most see. A mesmerizing light that shines with warmth. A cultivated facade, faux confidence, anxious affability, self-deprecating protagonist.

Yet, when you are closer, you see us differently. See the darkened void that exists behind the spirited light. A sad space, haven from happy, a slipshod construction made of mistakes and delusions.

Some feel trepidation at the bleak, shadowed dark, devoid of warmth. Some others fear its presence, never having felt it or having felt it too closely before. Some harm—feeling burned by the bright or fearing caught in the cold.

Something about being both so outwardly vulnerable and so ‘high-functioning’ is just too much for most people. It’s stigma, rejection unspoken.