“You fucking idiot.” She said aloud to herself self-soothingly.
There he is again. Ugh. Why does he so often show up as I lean into a little more ease and success?
Flick. “Stay down little girlie!”
“Menacing self-talk is the only way to keep it together!” Prick.
Whew.
Stepping back into her freedom, she embraces the fresh opportunity to affirm:
I’m doing it differently.
Pesky legacies.
Her two big green feet step in.
This is me. I’m doing it differently. She weeps feeling the relief of calm and the absence of racing thoughts. Her belly warms. Tinglingly prepared.
I’m doing it differently.
His big red feet. She steps into them.
Shockingly unstable. Insecure. Suspicious. Reality, distorted. The rage, a mask for terror. The tower crumbling unceasingly.
I’m doing it differently.
Two little pale blue feet step in, in front of the big green ones. They settle in securely.
“Ouch. He is not safe,” the little one rests with knowingly.
I’m doing it differently.
“I’ve got you,” The big one says.
I’m doing it differently.
With each acknowledgement, his feet move farther away.
I’m doing it differently.
His parents step in.
“Will you take him from here?,” the big one asks them straightforwardly.
I’m doing it differently.
“Absolutely,” they reply in unison.
I’m doing it differently.
Order brings some relief to the system.
I’m doing it differently.