I have made it a week without stepping on a scale. I am going nuts. It annoys me how much it is bugging me. I can hear myself sound crazy as I write that statement out, but knowing that doesn’t change anything. It is among the constant things in my life, awareness that the things swirling around in my mind are probably considered a bit crazy by the general population. When I was younger it led to me being a better listener than talker. These days I have embraced most of my craziness, but I am still a better listener of people’s thoughts than expressing mine.
I had to consciously remove myself from the land of make believe as a child, instead of the reverse. I existed there most of the time, elaborately daydreaming, it was hard to come back to the time in which most of my friends and family existed. Sure I knew the difference, the everyday life of this world, in contrast to the other one… I just liked the other one better. Maybe it was the abuse that sent me there more often, strange thing was my other world was not perfect either. It had its own shifting lights and experiences, some beautiful others sad or dark. But I felt freer there. I could explore and create, doing things that I could not in the physical. I felt me; all of me, no limitations of time or fences of rules, my body was never in the way.
I think sometimes as we age, we kill off that part of ourselves, define ourselves as adults and lose something; the part that perhaps fuels facets of what we are.
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