Standing on the mountain of everything I've accomplished and gone through and overcome, I am strong and tough as nails and, oh my lord, so fucking resilient.

At least, that's how it can feel on the outside.

My insides, though... They are soft and squishy, a sticky mess of unhealed traumas and hurt and shame and disappointment.

It goes deep, because I have carved out a comfortable, thick cocoon for myself within which I can hide it all away. But that doesn't stop the moments when it bubbles up to the surface and my insides spill out through my ears and my mouth. Or maybe it comes from the heart.

It ends up all around me and, suddenly face-to-face with everything I've been purposely and unknowingly avoiding, I do an awkward dance between quickly shoving each piece back inside in one big gulp, and releasing it into the great wide open as a fiery rage that I have spent decades nursing and feeding and keeping alive.

But seeing it in front of me, swallowing it whole is difficult. I want to shout at everyone instead; a misplaced(?) anger at the world and all the people in it.

People I've known and could never have known.

People I love and care about, and people who couldn't give a shit.

Myself.

Then I think about little me, and all the times she needed protection but was ignored or not believed or pushed aside or excluded or even punished. She never learned how to say what she wanted or needed (because it was greedy), and she never learned how to stand up for herself (because it was rude).

After I had the almost-burnout a couple years ago, my therapist asked, "Who protects you?"

I didn't have an answer.

Or the answer was "Nobody".

I did cry about it, though. It was painful to realise, because even then, there were some people I was counting on to look out for me who I felt let me down. So in the end, when I was exhausted and broken and angry and sad, I was forced to reckon with the reality that it's me... Only me.

Alone again, like 5-year-old me who spent hours at a time on her own because she couldn't finish her dinner or because she accidentally knocked the toilet roll into the toilet or because her anxiety meant she didn't dare say the prayer at meal time.

Or her at 3 years old with a broken leg that was dismissed despite her tears and cries of pain because fathers are busy and imperfect or something.

Or older, at 13, awakened in the night and staying very still, pretending to be asleep, wishing she hadn't woken up because not knowing what was happening seemed like the easier option.

All of them waiting for someone to save her.

There were times an angel would come, but many times, they did not.

So, anyway, I forgot there was a third option besides fight or flight. I'd been afraid to hold it and actually look at my gooey inside mess. But I had a peek. And maybe I'll have another peek later on.

For the time being, some key takeaways now that I'm an adult who makes her own choices:

1. Sometimes, things feel like a punishment when they aren't; I'm learning to tell the difference.
2. As much as I believe in helping others and that humankind thrives best through community (don't worry, I won't stop doing that), I'm the only one who can really take care of me.
3. But(!) showing up for myself also means understanding and expressing my wants and needs; I'm going to practice doing that better, just in case there's someone who can and wants to share the load a teeny tiny bit. :)

Peace and love.