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it took a very, very long time for me to feel comfortable or familiar with my own self. and an even longer time for me to consider myself as a safe, sacred space that i could call home. i remember being 6 years old, and from outside of my bedroom i could hear screaming and slurring and slamming. something was wrong with my dad again, but i could not figure it out. and if i tried to, i would be told to go back to my room. i had a plethora of feelings and confusion and nowhere for them to go. so i left my body and my mind and traveled to imaginative places where i did not live in such a reality. i remember being 14 years old, and the feelings had been built up inside of me like a ten ton weight. i hated it. i hated feeling. i wanted nothing to do with it. what a fucking burden it was to feel. so, i ran. i ran into bowls of green and bottles of gold and powders of white and friends who were not friends at all. running worked. i was terrified of the contents that layed bury deep within me.
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