Queen of my own heart. Liver of my own life.
Former target of domestic violence.
Advocate for others who still are.
10 long years of sorrow, joy, heartache, love, pain, hope, regret, illness, gratitude.
10 years ago today since we left that house of horror.
Recovery is a life-long project … or feels that way at least.
Reach out to someone who you know has been there too. ❤︎
In a dark place looking out
“What’s the point in being alive if you don’t at least try to do something remarkable?”
This resonated today because of my accommodation situation. It’s really not a healthy one and is the result of having nowhere else to go last July when the owners of the shared house I was in made a sudden decision to sell.
I came West out of necessity, not because I was hankering for desert time (which sometimes I do … there’s nothing like it to initiate feelings of confrontation with self).
Four and a half months in and I can feel the pull of the local community. Friends, work, shared experiences.
But it’s not my home.
I could settle – and by that I mean “settle”, not settle if you get my drift – but this won’t do for someone like myself who lives “close to the edge” as a wise relative pointed out this week.