writing

sometimes i write letters that i never send.  it helps me to process.  to grieve.  to admit.  it helps me to be me.  my introverted weird self that needs  to process.  to put things to words.  have to do it. but there aren't many who want to sit and listen to me process stuff.
lately i've been processing how my marriage was good....and not good.  the good was that i have great kids.  that i've lived in a town with a fabulous church.  the relationship itself wasn't healthy.  it was not based on sharing and trust.  it wasn't compatible.  it wasn't safe.  yet, good came from it.
but, i've also got some crap to deal with because of it.  i am finding that i very easily fall into settling.  into fading into just being someone that has purpose but not....value?  it's hard.  i allowed this.  it's on me.  but as i heal from my marriage, i'm finding that i allowed it in general.  it sucks.  because now i have to work really hard to make sure i'm actually being me.  meeting my needs.  not selfishly.  but not simply denying my needs all of the time.  i have to be sure that i'm loyal to the person that is in me.  like she's my friend too.  it has been....truly difficult.
so i write.  scribble on pages that i wish i could send.  words that i wish i could say out loud.  thoughts that i must put to order.
and i heal.  a little at a time.  able to say to myself what is true.  that i am worthy of kindness.  of mattering.  of consideration.  of gentleness.  of being sought out.  though i haven't been used to it.  though i didn't remain true to me and put the boundary that i should expect that.
i write.  i think.  i ponder.  i heal.
i am happy still.
i like the people in my life.  though, they don't get what is going on.  strangely, nobody asks.  we talk about less difficult things.  less deep.
back to cleaning my home.  i am going to make it my home.
blessings.