it's in the exhale.

I have writer's block. Or I'm stuck. Maybe a tad apathetic. Feeling indifferent. It's easy to lean into my anger. I'm angry. That means I'm afraid. I'm fearful. I am.
The future scares me. The present overwhelms me. And the past makes me sad.
Whoa. That was a mouthful. A bit depressing but honest, raw, sincere. I want to be all those things. Even in the midst of the hurt. I tell myself it is okay to be sad. Disappointed. In my world, I can be all of those things and still belong.
Belong.
 I can't say that word without inhaling deeply.
 It's in the exhale that I learn. Slowly and often painfully but I grow. My heart molds into something different. The shape of it comes out sharp or rounded, brittle or soft, big or small, bruised or shiny. But my soul emerges with something. That something is not always welcomed. Occasionally it's not defined. And mostly not understood.
This something is suffering.
It's part of life. That doesn't mean I like it. I certainly don't get it. And I'm not going to pretend I understand it.
 Suffering stinks. It's so hard. Confusing. Lonely. Scary.
It's not hard to imagine that I can't just blend into the wall. Sneaking into a place is impossible for me. Forget being late and not making a grand entrance. I have gotten use to this. To ease my anxiety or discomfort of being stared at, I tell myself people are looking at the dog. He's a stud.

"Keep repeating that, Holly.  You're fine. You're not different. You belong."
Inhale. Deeply.
It's the exhale I'm working on.
I'm still struggling to breathe from a comment made by a parent to their child last week.
"Why does that lady have that dog, Momma!?"
Honestly, I added the "Momma" part to make this lady more enduring than she really was/is.
Keep in mind that this child and her "momma" are only inches to the right side of me. In fact, I could have spit in her face, we were that close. :)
"That dog helps people like her."
People. Like. Her.
It was as if those three words came over the sound system on 8th street. Echoing.
People. Like. Her.
 It felt as if the hundreds of people that lined the street, watching the street performers stopped and stared at me as those three words were shouted over the loud speaker.
A person like me.
I'm still in the process of figuring this statement out while I'm exhaling. The shape of my heart is still being molded. But I'm learning.Growing in the hurt.
I long to be someone who doesn't see a difference in another person.
I want to treat them as if they belong.
Inhale.
Because they do.
Exhale...

We all do.