torn brain from heart.

a recovery story

My life existed in pixelated memories stored in a digital cloud - in a far-off, adrift, unanchored, unattached cloud. 

Everything I thought I knew was possibly true, depending on the words arranged in the search bar. 

My curiosity was questionable; deep dive, head down, rabbit hole ready. 

Siphoning strength of words, a creative contribution to cover the pain. Accessing goodies on an as-needed basis brought to the table with gullible glory, and new evidence of magic and mystery was born again. 

The pain of not knowing how to do better. 

Tweaking, altering and changing, recycling the same old story sprinkled with the gentle gift of goodness. 

Using self-assigned ethics willing to shape a story for good. I was guided by a broken compass aimed toward healing. Course correction at any sign of faltering, a tiny seed of knowing I have torn brain from the heart. 

Truth time. 

It's Monday @ 9:37 pm at the time of writing, and this is the fourth version of this newsletter I have written for this week. I'm feeling so wobbly about what to send I feel entirely defeated about it because writing is terrible and wonderful, I can't decide! Mostly terrible and wonderful.

If you think I'm ridiculous, you'd be right. I write all the time and tuck shit away for another day, and I'm over it. So here she is, the real me, or the fourth version of me. I hope you still love her. Just press the ♥️ button to join the fun…

Note: The above piece was written in a weekly writing group I attend. Every week, we write and share our recovery stories. I have met the most incredible people that open up bravely about life’s beautiful comebacks. I have learned that we are all writers, and we all have a story. 

It is beautiful to share more than a pixelated life with you.