Everything I’m working on seems to be running me directly into a terrible force field of trauma-generated protections. The sprint forward creates a brief euphoria of imagined success immediately before the crash sends me toppling over backwards into an angry ball of pain – somehow both emotional and physical.
After dusting myself off, I resume pacing back and forth along the invisible barrier, pretending to be a powerful lion who has nothing better to do than preen and show off a stoic strength and occasionally flexing my claws. I’m hoping my demeanor conveys that my strength comes from being standoff-ish and not that I’m seething with hurt and fear at being trapped.
Unfortunately, there are some who seem to be trapped on this side of the barrier with me, and, they, therefore, bear the brunt of my angst and sullen “do I look like I give a fuck” attitude. To make it worse, when they have the audicity to call out my behaviour, I prefer to blame their unwillingness to love me for who I am as the root of the problem. I am just this asshole, afterall. We all know it. It’s who I have always been, and who I am at my truest nature. I think. I must be, right?
The Sunroom 
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