life after suicide: i am not ok.

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👇🏿 ain’t got no time for that? press play for the radical radio recording ✨

i remember a time when i felt happy, joyful even, excited for my future. i remember feeling good in my life. i remember feeling ok.

i am not ok.

i am not ok. i am holding on with a thin thread and am very much not ok. it’s hard for me to admit. if i admit it to myself, i feel like i’m firing my inner cheerleader who tells me i can do it. or, it’ll get better. or, this is just a season. i feel like if i admit that i am not ok i’ll succumb to the growing mass that’s lodged in my throat-heart-chest and be suffocated alive; a sacrificial lamb to my… feelings.

it’s a funny-not-funny paradox then, when i finally admit to myself, or out loud with a pal, that i am not ok; it releases some of that pressure build up simply in saying the words. the tension of my ‘holding all my shit together’ for public or personal appearances melts, i can lean into my living truth and finally allow myself to come the fuck undone. (and i do mean undone.)

then i can be with it.

i can be the wet, sobbing mess on the floor.
i can be the sad, scowly faced woman at the store.
i can rage. i can scream. i can cower. i can be flattened.
i can be the whole of this ‘swamp’ experience.
i can dress her up and take her out.

thank the dickens for the freedom in that.

when i say i am not ok, finally admit it out loud, it releases me from the shame and stifled sadness of holding it all in. not always, though sometimes and mostly, it helps.

i am not ok.

and right now, that’s ok with me.

i love you,

xxo ~k 💜

☾ᐧ post script ᐧ☽

who am i holding my shit together for anyhow? and what is it about coming undone that’s so bleeding terrifying?

~ credit to ~ regena thomashauer for her ‘swamping’ insights

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