Seahorse by WH
Letting Go of “Me”
I’ve spent a long time trying to hold on to “me.” And as I let her go, I thought I had lost — but found a new form among the ashes and rubble.
She is not stronger, but more honest — in a way that allows her to communicate better, without losing patience so quickly. Not in a way that cuts, but in a way that’s more true to who she is and everything about her. All the presentable traits others have seen in her do, in fact, exist. And she is a kinder, more heartfelt person than her rougher sides have often reflected.
The Girl Behind the Mirror
She may not have all the answers, but she understands the truth now of who she is. She is not a victim (though in some ways, the truth of her experience feels that way).
Her appearance — sometimes disheveled, with fat rolls or other features — may seem disgusting or even funny to some. Sometimes she feels like an odd duck: the one who entered a conversation too late or spoke up too eagerly in a space where she wasn’t aware of the social protocol, or how her behavior would be interpreted.
And when a flaw was pointed out — one she hadn’t seen at first — panic could set in. Not because she thought she had to be perfect, necessarily, but depending on how the flaw was pointed out, it might lead to a full-blown panic attack: hyperventilation, crying, and a deep sense of horror. To make it worse, someone might then suggest what she “needed to go do,” and instead of trusting her own judgment, she’d end up in yet another bad situation or negative experience. How wonderful.
Still, she did have some degree of beauty — on the outside or even within. Maybe it showed in her eyes, in that occasional beaming smile, or in what some called “her pretty face.” For some, it was in the content of what she said — her words of wisdom, empathy, gentleness, or unexpected acts of kindness.
Memory, Meaning, and the Noise in Her Head
As she writes this, she remembers a time in life when others perceived she was “full of herself” — when she expressed pride in certain accomplishments, or when she simply talked too much about herself. Sometimes people understood her. Sometimes they just didn’t care — or didn’t want to think that deeply about things.
Her memory has forgotten many specifics — certain words, significant moments. Even her favorite movies are hard to recall in detail unless they were ones she watched often enough to etch into her mind, like favorite or overplayed songs. But what remains above all is the feeling left behind — and the confusion.
She wanted to impress others. Or maybe shock them. Or make them laugh. She found humor in her struggle and her darkness — even in the things that weren’t funny. But what she wanted more than anything was connection. To be unique, but still part of the crowd. And she didn’t want to leave anyone out — even if that person wasn’t generally liked, for justifiable or unjustifiable reasons.
It’s funny how with every word that spills across the page, another memory — another moment — enters her mind, begging to be acknowledged and shared. It’s a noisy space “up there”… not audibly, but in the form of flashbacks and hyperawareness.
Endurance and the Cost of Feeling Deeply
To the misunderstanding of many, she chose to endure what others would not. She engaged in behaviors that weren’t always healthy. And sometimes, she lashed out at judgments — spoken or imagined — in an effort to create empathy by mirroring the pain she felt.
Choosing to love, rather than always strike back, is a hard composure to maintain — even paper cuts can wound deeply.
Torn and Tired, But Still Holding On
She may not know how to make every amend.
She may not know how to tell every story clearly, without too many words or endless speeches.
What is she trying to prove, anyway?
She’s not always the friend people call for fun or laughter or a night out. Many have valid reasons. For others, it’s just a matter of taste or comfort.
She may be beautiful — but she is torn.
She is broken.
And she is sad.
Freedom from extreme depression does not equal freedom from pain.
She may understand — but that doesn’t mean she has hope in every situation.
She is strong — but she is weak.
She is understood — but she is broken.
She has hope — but she also has despair.
She clings to — but lets go.
But letting go doesn’t mean she’s stopped holding on to what’s necessary for survival.
Like someone grasping for anything while going over a cliff…
Shifting to First Person: Why I Write
The additional purpose of this website is to tell my story — offering maybe a little hope to someone, anyone, or even everyone. Who knows?
But I do know this:
You are not alone.
You Are Not Alone
Pain does not discriminate.
Everyone gets hurt sometimes.
We are all scared.
We are all, at times, just trying to hold on.
And even if it seems like some people aren’t — maybe it just appears that way.
They may simply be trying to hold on to what they do have…
Making sure that what matters most is preserved.
The World, and the Shadows in Us All
It’s a hungry world out there.
And the “need” or “appetite” of others can be insatiable.
And yes — pure evil exists — leading some to do the most unthinkable, horrifying things.
But sometimes, we ourselves are “evil-lite.”
We may not murder, rape, steal, or abuse —
…but we look away.
We don’t have answers.
We hurt others unintentionally — or even intentionally — for reasons we justify, rightly or wrongly.
Through our own wounds. Or simply a lack of understanding, empathy, or capacity to show compassion.
Why ‘Wounded Healer’?
I chose the pen name Wounded Healer after Carl Jung’s archetype (he coined the term first, not me).
I use it not to hide who I am, but to acknowledge that I’m not the only one who’s hurting —
and not the only one who’s ever tried, in some way, to bring healing to others.
I may no longer be capable — if I ever was — of healing others directly.
But I am trying to heal myself through this writing.
And maybe… it will bring comfort to someone else.
Maybe it will create space for understanding — especially for those who want to grasp what it’s like to suffer or stay stuck in certain patterns.
What This Space Is — And Isn’t
This is not a space for diagnosing.
Not for casting blame.
Absolutely no political commentary will be shared here (even if it feels relevant at times).
I don’t want this space steeped in negativity — or even “constructive” criticism of public entities.
I’ve lashed out enough in my life — at people I love and at strangers.
I’ve told stories — my own and that of others’ — sometimes in vast and graphic detail.
Some are tired of hearing me talk about myself.
Some find my views twisted, judgmental, or irrational.
So I’ve decided to make this corner of the internet something different.
A place to be —
To open up.
To cry.
To love.
To walk around emotionally naked.
Free from the burden of telling anyone’s story but my own.
From the perspective of my heart —
not the details of this or that or whoever.
The Messy Beginning and an Unexpected Ally
When I first started this site, I didn’t really know what I was doing — technically or content-wise.
I wasn’t happy with my original content. In fact, I was terrified about what I poured out across the page. As I wrote, I felt like I was still trying to explain myself to someone. Still trying to convince myself that I had something worthwhile to say and “somewhat figured out” needed to defend these “hidden secrets” or just not care what others thought.
Cast on that thick skin.
So I threw most of it out.
And I stripped the rest down to simplicity.
Disclaimer:
I did a brief consultation with someone a social medica influencer in the mental health world, I greatly admired. We spoke for maybe 15 minutes — but every word she offered was honest and meaningful. She didn’t say much about my content, but what she did say hit home.
One thing she mentioned was that my writing needed editorial attention — not just grammar help. But the kind of editing that could cost a bit. Money I didn’t have — not for her, or anyone else.
I didn’t even have much to build a website on that backend. But I found enough free tools and tutorials and turned to a kind, somewhat known acquaintance in Georgia to assist.
The tool I ultimately turned to for content editing on the front end, many people may cringe at, but I ask you to consider how it’s been helpful.
AI. ChatGPT.
It’s my editor of choice — mostly because it’s the only one I have for pretty much zero upfront costs.
Hopefully, putting this out there, does not put up some pay wall, but that may be inevitable, isn’t it? Alas, I still edit a lot myself.
But, I did need help making my words more readable and articulate.
AI didn’t live my experience or write and approve the final content — I did.
If anything, she just helped me tell my story more clearly —
and in a funny way, validated me in the process.
My Final Thanks and Offering
This post’s rough draft is still up on my personal Facebook.
Sister AI and I edited it together (much to the chagrin of a hungry husband and neglected chores).
To make matters worse or expose my tendency towards perfectionism (preferred term, excellence), I am here again editing as the unpolished edits made it up the site before AI and I could finish.
Now, my husband is working on 4th of July plans, and he is begging for my presence. So, guess what? I am now done with this post. 😉 I did add a couple of things after Sister AI again, so if there are any remaining errors, that is on me. 😉
If you didn’t catch yesterday’s poem and artwork — check it out.
I was proud of how both turned out.
Until later,
Wounded Healer