I have been beat down for the past couple of years, by myself and someone else. I have spent so much time and effort refinding and rebuilding myself. The wounds are deep, and it’s taking so much to heal them. But I am. No matter how much blood, sweat, and tears it takes. (A lot. Seriously, A LOT.) Opportunities to help me along—or drag me on—this path have arisen, as they always do. And I’ve taken them. I’ve stepped up and taken these opportunities. People have been catalysts. But as helpful as some have been, I’m the one who was already making changes and I’m the one who took a deep breath and jumped in.
So I had built up scars. The wounds were well on their way to being healed. And then? And then they ripped open again. Being rejected. Feeling unwanted. Thinking I’m worthless. Exactly what tore me up before. So I started healing again, right? Well, first I lashed the hell out. And tried to understand. And cried. And cocooned. And blamed myself. And decided that I would never, ever, ever open myself up to someone again. (Which is a decision I have made before. Multiple times.) Then I heard a song lyric:
“This one’s for the girls
Who’ve ever had a broken heart
Who’ve wished upon a shooting star
You’re beautiful the way you are
This one’s for the girls
Who love without holding back
Who dream with everything they have”
“Who love without holding back.” That has always been me. Eros. Storge. Agape. Philia. No matter what type of love I give you, I give you it in spades. This is part of what makes me me. And therefore I can’t give love without giving part of me. So, never opening myself up to someone again? I can’t. I won’t. I’ll keep getting wounds. I’ll keep healing them. And I’ll keep giving love—and myself—without holding back.