I want to come out as Rain Robert to my friends and family. The few closest to me know but most of the rest don’t. As good as it was to have my own secret garden for a while, now it feels like a burden. I’m telling myself it’s about getting ahead of the conversation, in case people find out on their own. But really it’s about how I feel right here right now. Split. I so don’t want to feel split. I don’t want to hide. I don’t want to lie. That’s exactly what I’ve been trying to get away from. I’m trying to heal. Wholeness. Realness. Integrity. Showing up as who I am. That’s what my project is supposed to be about.
As I contemplate my options, my inner demons are rearing their ugly heads, roaring in unison. What I do is stupid, dangerous, cheap. Others are doing it better than I ever could. Who do I think I am? Everyone will know how bad I am. I haven’t been consistent enough, productive enough, brave enough, good enough. I really shouldn’t let anyone see what I do. I really shouldn’t have done it in the first place. I really shouldn’t exist at all.
Ouch, and yeah, that’s how quickly I end up all the way there. Going down the path that is a slippery slope. Emotionally dysregulated. I say it out loud because it helps me hear how out of whack it is. I used to keep it to myself. Turns out it’s best exorcised. Making the sounds of the words helps them find their way out of me.
I can be so strong. I can also be so brittle. Crick cracking, shattered pieces on the floor, sharp edges that cut. Fractured, stumbling, grasping. Oh how I wish I could escape those feelings, but oh how inextricable they are.
And yet, I think my strength comes from my fragility. From weathering the storms that push me around. From holding on, fingers to the ledge. It’s not from not going there. It’s from being there, no choice in the matter, but sticking around anyway, even though it hurts, god it hurts, and years and years of hurt are echoing along, amplified by all that’s still left to grieve. After each round I always hope it was the last one, but then in the middle of the night, in the middle of my shift, in the middle of the street, the next wave rises, washing over me. And of course I’ll wish it away but I’ll hold on anyway, so I can be made better for it.
Maybe this is true. Maybe it isn’t. I don’t really care. It helps me make sense of my experience. It reminds me that I don’t go through this process over and over again to remain stuck, to remain limited, to remain concealed. I want to own this. I want to own myself. I want to share this. I want to share myself. What else is life supposed to be about?