so cradle your head in your hand and breathe

I was going to say something profound but then I didn’t have anything to say.

I did. But I got wrapped up in a song and breathing in and out and thinking how wonderful it is that I can breathe on my own, but that I shouldn’t be breathing on my own.

Because every breath should be the stepping in of divinity. It isn’t always a bad thing to be on life support. If I need help just breathing, i certainly can’t live my life on my own.

I have to have this realization every day. I can’t just realize it once and it be so. Every day I have to wake up and come to the conclusion, completely separate of other days, that I can’t go it alone.

Though it gets kind of frustrating, because while this is something I have to decide for myself every single day, there are always people telling me what to do when I’m already doing it of my own initiative without their assistance and they act like if they didn’t tell me I wouldn’t do it. I am capable of doing things for myself without everyone hovering over me and babysitting me and watching what I do. I can take care of it. I’m a big girl.

A big girl that still needs help and still needs love and still needs her friends and still needs her mommy and still needs her daddy, but capable of doing things by herself. I’m always asking my mother what she thinks will become of me when I’m not living in her house where she can tell me when to go to bed when I’m already going, or to do my homework when she doesn’t even remember which classes I’m taking. She usually diverts away from that. Nut one of these days, I’m not going to live with my mommy. Not that I don’t love my home or my mother or my family, but hopefully that will be sooner rather than later. Not that i’m not thankful to have things taken care of for me, but I have to learn how to take care of myself.

Or rather, I have to learn that I can’t take care of myself--and that there’s only One who can. Just one. Even my parents can’t take care of me. And I certainly can’t actually take care of myself. But I have to get out on my own before I can experience that and live it and realize it for myself in the real world.

I mean, seriously, I live in my parent’s basement. There is nothing real about it. My life is an 80s chick flick.

And there may be screaming and crying while going at it, but there will be joy and laughter, too. Give and take, up and down. Only the bad things can make you truly appreciate and thankful for the good. Only the ugly can make you see the real beauty.

Man, this really spun out further than I thought it would.



Love,
Amelia