anonymous story 7

I used to see ads for retreats and retreat camps like some luxury way of healing.

I would buy a magazine and see those glossy picture perfect images of a woman in a bikini sitting in a perfect yoga pose, meditating in the sun, next to an infinity pool. I would think if I could one day afford to go there. I could take time out to heal, and maybe, just maybe I would lose weight . Maybe just be, everything in my life would be fixed.

But when I started my healing, you know what it looked like? A worn out 49 year old , who was homeless, lost everything living in a backpackers crying, sobbing in a fetal position under the shower, with snot and saliva coming out of her mouth. It’s struggling with a government department to have a roof over your head but fucking determined that your abusive ex will have that restraining order. It’s showing up to the doctor because you know medication is essential for your mental health, It’s going to a therapist and working through the childhood shit. It’s going back to bed after getting up only three hours before. It’s asking for help. It’s learning about you. It’s being there for your inner child. Helping them, letting them cry. It’s learning to feel again, it’s about learning about your worth. Learning that you are enough just as you are. It’s about learning you are loveable. It’s learning about your needs. Acknowledging emotional. And developing boundaries.

Healing is fucking messy. Crying , grieving, being angry and all those things.

But you know what else healing is? Fuckin worth it. It’s so worth it. Because on the other side is laughter and joy. Appreciating that you are beautiful and that after domestic violence you will NEVER EVER let any bastard treat you like that ever again.

Be kind to yourself

And

Know

I love you