As I sit with this word, solitude, my heart fills with joy. A happy buzz flows through my body. Tears—just a few—well up in my eyes and the corners of my mouth lift ever so slightly.

I feel content.
With myself.
It’s a wondrous sensation.

I haven’t always felt this way about being alone. There were many times I felt desperate for companionship. Desperate and yet terrified. Solitude was safe. I’d built myself a lovely prison. Others brought uncertainty.

Would you like me, the pivotal question.

Never mind that I might not like you. I’d play the game, do the dance, mold myself into just the right form. It was survival. Please like me. Please tell me I’m worthy of the breath flowing through my nostrils.

Trouble with that logic, before long I didn’t like me. Of course it was your fault. I’d become this puppet because of you—though you never knew. I’m a great actress.

So off I’d roll again . . . alone and bitter. Convinced I’d be better off.

Ah the game of self.

Thankfully, by the grace of God/Goddess, some new players have been introduced to my inner landscape. Self hatred has begun relating to Self acceptance. Self doubt began talking with Self esteem, and Self criticism—perhaps the Queen of the land—she sat down with Self care.

It’s not always peaceful in the land of Debra, yet grace and gratitude are in abundant supply.

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