I struggled with what to write about today. Sometimes the words just don't want to fall from my lips onto the keyboard like I would like them too. Sometimes I feel alone and fragile. Sometimes I am afraid what I have to say isn't worthy enough of other people's time. After all, what could I possibly have to say that would change anything? I am a firm believer that one person can change the world a little at a time. I am not sure that I can change the world but I can change myself. I can change the way I look at things. The way I treat others around me. As I sit in front of this computer drinking reheated coffee with too much creamer in it, I stare at the blinking line, mocking me. It flashes at me waiting for some prophetic words.
I am fragmented. There are parts of me that believe in what I do and who I am. Then there are small unorganized nibs floating around in my brain that linger with doubt. Who are you to make such comments? They ask in their accusatory tone. Just who do you think you are? I am not always sure who I am. I mean truly, deeply who I am. I have changed over the years as I grew into a woman. I am not the same person I was when I was ten. I am not even the same as I was a year ago. I know that I am a kind person. That I care too much on occasion. That I am protective of those that I love. That I would give anything for a few minutes more with those that I have lost in this world. I know that I second guess myself. I feel guilty for hurting or offending others with my words real or imagined. It keeps me awake at night. I am overly sentimental. I feel too deeply and give too much. I know that I am often afraid. Afraid that I am not as strong as I see myself. Afraid that I have not been good enough or left any trace of where I have been in my life. That my legacy is just paper lanterns blowing in the breeze. Beautiful to look at but fragile to the touch. I know that I am a good person but is that enough? Is it enough to be good, too care so much for others that it hurts me in the process? That what others say marks me? That how other people feel about me cuts me so deep I could swear the scars are visible? Am I enough?
I have no idea. What I do know, or rather choose to believe, is that I am not all I want to be but I am just enough. Enough of a friend to be loyal, hold your hand and listen to your troubles. Enough of a daughter that I call my mother every day just to see how her day was. Enough of a mother to hold and kiss my children every chance I get and give them everything I have. Enough of a wife that I love my husband with every once of my being. That I will stand by his side, rooted to the ground, till the end of my life. Enough of a person that I will help you if you fall. That I will cry with you. That I will offer whatever I can. Because to not would go against everything that lives inside my soul. Enough of a writer that I keep typing away, even though I have no idea what the worth of my writing is. I am just enough of everything that I need to be. Having an mental illness has not made me less of a person but it has changed me. Not for the better or for the worse. It has fragmented me. It has made me just enough.
I do not own this image.