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CODING RED

The AZ highway.

A mere sliver through grieving eyes.

Keep driving, Kate.

I’m in the middle of a get-a-way, you see.

My escape artistry playing out at the conclusion of a Midwest bachelorette.

Missed connection fuels age-old ‘I gota go’.

Through thick walls of sadness, I hug the bride-to-be + co.

Could they feel it I wondered?

I was slow in exiting.

Making sure to mask my mounting code red.

@ 9000 miles a minute, where was I racing?

I had no idea.

But over there was somehow better than here.

I gazed @ the car clock.

8:35 AM.

My flight wasn’t til 10:35 PM.

Time taunted, amplifying my fear of here.

What’s here?

And why is it so f’in frightening?

HERE HURTS.

More accurately, the hunger for here hurts.

For it’s plastered with ways I still don’t let myself feel.

When alone + especially around others.

Where I co-dependently lean on x, y, z + a-w.

Because I’m petrified of myself.

Of staying in my feeling self, that is.

I’m beginning to see origins ::

Where my feeling self met rejection.

In those early developmental stages, said rejection equated to unmet needs.

And during dependent years, unmet needs could mean death.

Feeling = death.

Quite the conundrum for the ‘feeler’.

I often ask myself how to return to feeling when I’ve side stepped.

Pretty sure how is the wrong question.

It’s the hunger not the how.

The hunger will break apart the code red mission of :: !DO.NOT.FEEL!

It will shatter mountains of tension that kept down feeling to keep us alive.

The hunger aches (if we let it).

The tension throbs (if we allow it).

But it’s not suffering.

It’s not a belly gorged on co-dependent crutches {substance, people, mental musing, anything over >>> there}.

Stay famished my friends.

The discontent of our emptiness is no doubt divine.

XO

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