She is me, I am not her.
She is me, but I am no longer her.
Yesterday I found some old journals. The black holes of my past. Like reading a book someone else wrote. Tales of another life, sorrowful then painful, questioning and then overcoming. It contained a stagnancy of abuse, a litany of soul crushing, me caught it a place I couldn’t stay in or flee from. A literal hell.
I mused at my questions, my meditations from over ten years ago. I anguished over how hard I was on myself, in the most difficult times of my life. Compounding the trauma and suffering. A complete cycle of abandonment.
It captured me, sucked me back in time. It taught me how loyal I am.
I see now that I am the exact stuff resilience is made of.
The wreckage behind me, always a part of my journey, no longer defines me. I am no longer her.
Fierce in place of sad.
Whole where it was once fractured.
Strong and sure instead of weak and unable.
Stable in growth where I once begged for understanding.
Proud now, of how far I’ve come, versus overwhelmed by how much further I have yet to go.
Excited for the future, no longer dreading the days.
Loving and wholeheartedly open rather than shackled to abuse and emptiness.
She is me but I am no longer her.