Most of the time I don't even think about what's going on. I don't have the room. Business and home and life keep me quite occupied. But I'm getting tired of carrying everyone else's shit, even though I signed up for it. Sometimes it's exhausting having everyone vomit their anxieties in my lap. (Karma's a bitch, ain't it?)
I'm working very hard at keeping the energy fields of my living room free and clear and mine! I just have to keep saying "It's theirs, not mine. It's theirs, not mine."
And then there are my friends. I love you I love you. But you all have such HUGE SHIT going on for you right now. I can't hold all of it in my head, although I'm holding all of it in my heart. Life changes and love changes and identity changes and drug changes and death changes and disease changes and changes I can't even remotely define. My stuff isn't small either, although I minimize it I fear. It's amazing how comments in childhood can sow issues I still reap. I thank you in advance for never again calling me a "diva" or "drama queen". And I make no apologies in advance for punching you if you ever do.
I help others find their comfort. I encourage them to take time for themselves and relieve themselves of the responsibility of caring for their entire social world. But I feel guilty taking that same time. Especially when everyone I care about is in turmoil. Guilt doesn't exist. It's an imaginary emotion.
I've talked before about confusing love and pity for others...now I'm confusing love and pity for myself. Where is the man who will bring me a crate of oranges?
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