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Many times I’ve doubted the strength I have to carry myself.

‘Am I enough or are broken pieces of me distributing weight unevenly?’

I wasn’t enough, or so I believed.

My knees ached as I dragged conflicting reasoning’s everywhere I travelled, not truly feeling safe anywhere. Mainly blaming environment or circumstance.

I’m claustrophobic because feeling confined within the dark space of my mind dampens my palms and revs up the heat, exhausting vitality. In the company of so many people I feel anonymous, I feel alone and my thoughts are deafeningly loud. Did I feel so unworthy that I never screamed, never vented any of my worries?

‘Fuck you life, Fuck you!’

I never did screamed, ever. I swallowed instead.

And anxiety grew, rooting deeply into my pelvic bone, unsettling every step I took.

The inhospitable me that I’d grown to accept, to misunderstand was the only reality I knew when I slept, when I roamed, when I sat to eat dinner at the kitchen table.

Safety in my shell, was this ever a possibility when attacks from within were so violently satisfying? Sharp blades of self-hatred pierced through my gut lining. I was a walking battlefield.

But not anymore…

I am fed up with fleeting doubts that poison my power.

So my shell is a little dented and scarred tissue decorates my flesh, so what?

I am unravelling restrictive bands from around my lungs, it is safe for me breathe as deeply as when I first arrived into this world.

Breathing life into the only home I’ll ever need to invest in

Investing in me

I am home.

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