I'm wondering how I haven't seen it before now. That's always how it seems to go, though, doesn't it -- light blazes, a nanosecond and what was invisible is now clearly seen. 

I've been taking the long road to reality, and one of the important things I've learnt again and again on the way is that judgement and observation don't lead to the same place. 

Daily I am drawn into the grace of remembering to recognise thought & feeling  -- and leaving judgement to wag its tail outside the door. 

The day I began to see how I attempted to create and sustain an identity based on my own suffering, and slowly I saw the ways this manifested itself in day-to-day living. Like the way I position myself as an outsider, gradually learning to hear the voice within speak its dreary lies inside my head, plugging soul-sugar into my heart: Everybody here is a part of something that you are outside of. When I noticed this belief repeating itself, I practised responding in a new way -- noticing the belief without putting a ticket on it. Where I once reacted to this voice by withdrawing further from humans & community, I now carefully observe my thought and acknowledge it for what it is -- a thought, rather than a statement of identity. 

Although I've only become aware of it recently, this particular line (alongside many, many more) has reverberated within as long as I can remember. 

The ability to observe these lines & beliefs, rather than reinforcing them through judgement -- has allowed me to take gentle steps into a sleep that is lighter than before. 

I am writing today because I have observed something new about myself. I believe that I am not worthy of love, and attempt to create a version of myself within that will allow me to receive the love I long for. 

By creating a version of myself within, I mean to say that I do not go to any length or effort to bring this image onto my skin. There is no cream or care or designer wear. It is an obsession in my imagination that begs to be seen and redeemed by the outside world. It is an entirely invisible self-image that I cultivate daily, wondering if it will be validated & that I would be deemed worthy. I wonder how many of my thoughts run tangled with the hope that I would be seen -- beautiful. Worthy. Beauty and worth have their hands tied. 

It lies deep and I only saw it because -- I hear clear & feel the clench of heart closing, lamp snuffed out, leaves crunched underfoot & tree bare -- the day the words ugly were first addressed to me, and every proceeding proclamation since my fourteen-year-old heart broke & worth became a sea of unreachable longing. 

Standing between the belief that you are ugly & the begging desire that you might be seen beautiful, it's recent when somebody points out the exact thing you most hate about your body, the flaw you can't change, unless you were to go under some sharp knife that would feel like shedding soul. 

Tears prick and the old stories rise, and you can't cry loud but you & them are both dehumanised in your own eyes, now. You look up & then you retreat within, blurry eyes locking breaking heart before it all tumbles out soggy & torn. In your own silence within, you begin to listen. Silence and mayhem battle & I have a thousand pained reactions, indignant & considering going out through the front door. I am staying with the pain -- I am feeling & acknowledging the situation. Because of this, I have not become the situation. Though the words rest deep in the pit I call Shame, there is a quiet re-humanisation moving round the table.   

Later, my face distorts as Shame chokes itself round my neck and sobs wreck shoulders, like soul-bleeding that can't be contained, and it's only later, face turned, that I say it out loud, why it breaks me: if I am beautiful, then I am worthy of love. If I truly am ugly, then I am truly worthless. 

I'm scrawling this down today because in my most wounded place, perhaps I can practice the same remembering that has been occurring in the ways that I live & move & have my being. I'm scratching out these words because maybe you, too, have a broken heart that only seems to patch & bleed over and again, your worth a thousand scattered pieces in a colour you've forgotten how to see. 

That maybe I could begin observing what I can see -- maybe I could lean in, to see, that worth isn't derived from any judgement, made...