What My Bones Know

For ten years I thought I could outrun my past. But today I realize that running isn’t working. I need to do something else.

. Everything—everything, all of it—is infected. My trauma is literally pumping through my blood, driving every decision in my brain.

I’m tired of pulling. I don’t want to pull anymore. I want a dumbwaiter, or an escalator, or a floating rainbow drug cloud. Anything to lift me toward emotional stability. To fix me.

Melody Beattie said, “Gratitude turns what we have into enough.”

I had to systematize the light.

I must not be a monster. Would a monster be capable of receiving this much kindness? No—I must be loved tremendously. I must be magic.

So even though my friends were constantly attempting to fill the great void of my self-hatred with generous words, assurances, and compliments…they were all simply getting sucked into that black hole, mere crumbs for my intense desire.

A woman is simply supposed to provide, not to need.

more like the idea that the universe might be organized around something like love.

Now I believed in a force greater than myself.