Hiding

Living in a false reality, the one where it’s easier to pretend my mistakes never happened, is a lie.

Hiding from my decisions, not facing them, is cowardly.

Walking around in a skin that is plastic, molded by me, is suffocating. The real skin underneath is longing to breathe.

There is a calm before the storm.

My real self is gaining on me.

The things I’ve tried to hide are rising to the surface, presenting themselves, asking for permission to speak.

I’m not ready to face them.

I want them to be hidden from my flesh.

They won’t go away. They keep knocking.

Turning around, frustrated, facing them, I realize how small they are. They beg me to set them free.

How? How do I set you free?

Open the door to your heart. Heal. Allow the Healer to take them from you.

I pictured myself grabbing for the door handle. As I touched it, I felt another hand already there.

We opened the door, together, slowly.

The hidden things burst out. Excited to finally be set free, they ran out, they leapt away.

The hand that held the door handle with me was now holding mine.

He invited me along on a journey. I accepted.

Healing began to settle into the spaces where the hidden things once lived. The spaces became smooth, no longer digging in to my heart.

I started to feel peace.

My eyes saw things, and people, that I used to look beyond.

My heart felt new.

I looked down at my hands, often, because I still felt another in mine.

He would never let go.

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