of limits and imaginary lines

Uncle Walt again, dear friends:

From this hour I ordain myself loos’d of limits and imaginary lines,
Going where I list, my own master total and absolute,
Listening to others, considering well what they say,
Pausing, searching, receiving, contemplating,
Gently, but with undeniable will, divesting myself of the holds that would hold me.
I inhale great draughts of space,
The east and the west are mine, and the north and the south are mine.

Because it is not that I do not want to hear what you have to say, please believe me. But I think perhaps that you do not really know me, and it breaks my heart more than I can say. Perhaps I do not really know me, either, that’s a fair point.

From this hour…

I must.

I am thinking a lot about identity lately (always). In this awful chunk of time, I am learning a lot about what my actual “needs” are. Food and shelter, yes of course. But the rest of it… What do I need? I need to be able to put pen to paper, fingers to keys, words into the ether. This is how I feel like I am a part of something. And I need to be able to see your face (so many of you), and so I need the technology to do that. And I need to feel like I am capable of doing anything that makes someone else feel better. Even just for a tiny second.

And the rest of it… I miss it, but I am okay. If I have to stay put in this room for a while longer, I just need to be able to see your face and to get words out.

And I do not know how to tell you this, my dear, but, after this all settles down, and it will, it must, I do believe that… When this all blows over, I think I need to leave. I am surrounded by too many ghosts here, and I do not feel that I can really breathe. I do not feel like my own master here. I feel held down and trapped, and my chest hurts, and I am so sorry.

Once upon a time there was a girl, because that is all they knew at the time. And I begin with “Once upon a time,” because there is something like a fairy tale out there for me somewhere. For you, too, I think. Please never stop considering that you are worthy of a fairy tale.

I have a lot to figure out. I prefer to hide in my little pockets of make-believe, and, therefore, there are many real things that I just don’t understand. I need to make sure I can sustain myself for this undetermined period of time that I might be staying put in this beautiful, blue room. It’s not that I don’t care about that part, I promise.

My will is undeniable. I refuse to give up, though I confess that the notion tempts me daily. It hurts so very much, accepting that those thoughts are a part of me. These thoughts and urges are an exhibit in the museum that is me. (Sorry, I am a huge dork.)

But, again, I tell you: I still feel like I might be walking toward a Me of whom I can be proud. And it isn’t necessarily because they look so dapper in their vest and bowtie, though, naturally, they do. I am proud of them for not giving up, and for being kind (most of the time), and for being true to who they are, even if they are still figuring out what that means a little at a time.

From this hour…

I ordain myself loos’d (perhaps only temporarily, yes, this is HARD, Uncle Walt) of:

My hatred of my body.

My belief that I am a Failure.

My fear that it is already Too Late For Me.

(I know that I repeat myself a lot. It means a lot to me that you are still here.)

I am larger, better than I thought,
I did not know I held so much goodness.

And so, my dear, are you. And I will never stop telling you.

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