The harder I try to be somebody else, the more I stay the same. My me-ness fights stubbornly to the surface, demanding to be heard. The more I try to ignore it, the louder it yells.
I don’t want it. I want to wipe slates clean, start fresh, be new. Revived.
I don’t want my baggage. I want to leave it behind at the train station, in an oops-I-didn’t-see-it-on-the-platform-and-now-it’s-taken-off-without-me sort of a way.
Instead it comes with me, and I can’t even contain it. It breaks through the container, it leaks through the edges of my eyes, it oozes out in muck and grouchy madness.
I don’t like it. I want it gone.
But they say, “Love yourself. All of yourself.”
And it’s what, in the end, we’re fighting for, always. To be loved.
And the easiest and hardest thing is to just give that love to yourself.
“You are perfect in your imperfection, blah blah blah,” they say.
I feel my baggage growing so heavy that it takes two people to carry it. In my fear that it will become too heavy, it only gets more packed.
And it leaks.
It is always leaking.
I can’t contain it.
It holds too much.
A year of loss. So much loss.
Head trauma. Lovers. Work. Identity. Security. Trust. Confidence.
So much loss.
Yet within that baggage, and I can see them, lie the seeds of beauty. Love. Excitement. Fulfillment. Happiness.
They are just so fragile, so tenuous, so weak.
And the rest of the baggage threatens to crush them.
And my eyes, they keep leaking. My heart it keeps hurting. My sadness is all-consuming and I fear it will not just consume me but those around me.
Stuck in a paradox of leaving to follow my dreams, it is never that clear-cut. It is never that easy.
There is no such thing as starting over.
There is only starting again. And again, and again, and again.
And channeling the baggage, dividing it up, taking it little by little.
So that no-one is crushed.
And those seeds can blossom.
Until one day, oh I hope to God this is true….
The blossoms will flourish. And the rest of the baggage, it will be there, too. But in the soil. Strengthening the roots of my new life.
It’s a funny-looking metaphorical bag in the earth, my suitcase.
But it’s the best I can do.
And I know I have to start by loving it. All of it.
So that I can love all of me.