I walk home in a sort of trance. It’s not until passing pedestrians give me double takes and odd looks that I realize I'm crying.
I don't try to stop.
I let the tears fall.
I cry for the girl I used to be.
I cry for me.
It's a foreign experience. Self-pity is not an indulgence that I allow myself. This doesn't feel like pity, though. It feels like self-compassion, and the realization makes me cry harder.
No one should need a diagnosis in order to be compassionate to themself. But I did. Tough love doesn't allow room for weakness, and tough love is all I've known. Maybe for now, just this once, I can experiment with a different kind of love. Something kinder.
I cry until my muscles ache, and then I cry more, like I'm letting out tears for a future sadness. People watch, and they whisper among themselves. A little girl points at me and asks her mommy what’s wrong with me, and the woman picks her child up and hurries away.
I see, and for the first time in my adult life, I don't care that I'm making a scene. I haven't hurt anyone. I shouldn't be ashamed. I shouldn't need to apologize. This is me.

Godt sagt! (0) Varsle Svar

Sist sett

ChristofferOle Jacob OddenesWencheMads Leonard HolvikLailaMorten MüllerOleVariosaEivind  VaksvikMartePiippokattaHarald KHilde MjelvaAlice NordliKirsten LundStian AxdalAmanda ACamillaNorahAnne Berit GrønbechReadninggirl30Ellen E. MartolToveKarin BergMathiasPer LundJulie StensethRisRosOgKlagingTom-Erik FallaBente NogvaTone R BIngvild SReidun SvensliTorill RevheimHege LRufsetufsaPia Lise SelnesGunillaLars Johann MiljeEirin Eftevand