Let Me Confess

With cold setting into my bones all day yesterday, I have no choice but to spend this morning nursing myself back to 36 degrees Celsius. What bliss!

I find there’s something deeply comforting in feeling physically weak. Feebleness gets me off the hook of having to try anything for anyone. All that’s required of me is to just rest and be. (cue: soft moan…..)

So, understandably, I’ve been taking plenty of Cosy, drinking lots of Self-Indulgence and flicking through Virginia Woolf’s On Being Ill, when this hit the spot:

“There is, let us confess it (and illness is the great confessional), a childish outspokenness in illness; things are said, truths blurted out, which the cautious respectability of health conceals.”

It quickly got me sitting up in my bed and spinning my yarn. (you’ll get the edited version of course and naturally hours after it actually happened but you knew that already)

So what do I feel like confessing today? Age almost 47.

That I still don’t really know what I’m doing.

That that scares me often enough times that I have no choice but ask for help.

That asking for help makes me feel super vulnerable.

That revealing my vulnerability makes me squirm in slime.

That slime is where I came from — so why does it feel so……..yucky?

That the time has come for me to own such yucky feelings.

That — given all of the above — I have nowhere else left to go but out.

And that now — after all that confessing — I have nothing else left to feel but elated.

Well. On that note. I’m off to create some shit.

And leave tons of crumbs behind so I can find my way back when the time comes.

Butterflies abound.