Tag: Therese Theurillat

Norwich Writing

Its just me sitting under the tree

Just let me be.

Let me be the girl with low self-esteem, the anxious, the overthinker. Let me be careful, let me be slow. Let me sit under the tree. 

Go, you confident Super-succeeder. Go, have your fun. I won’t steel your show in the front row. Go, enjoy your old-fashioned hero mentality. 

Let me sit and watch you win.

Let me be careful, let me be anxious, let me be slow. Don’t bother me, enjoy your bravery, your high self-esteem.

Just let me be the girl I want to be, the dreamer not the achiever. You can have it all, the money, the system, and success. 

I no longer even try to be part of it. 

Just give me my time, give me my space. I need my time and my space, to cry over the pain I caused in my body by trying to keep up with your measurements. I cry over the pain caused by all the years of not following my own slow, careful, deep thinking, imaginative, dreamy way of being. For the years I tried to rush to do things. To work, to achieve, to survive. The pain of this endless trying sits deep in my stiff neck and has closed my heart. 

But you, go, run, do. Have your money, enjoy your success. 

But let me be, let me cry. Let me cry out all the pressure built up in my body out of that childish need to fit in and to be loved, to be accepted. 

I don’t even want that anymore. And I certainly don’t want your advice – for how I must live, to fit in somewhere no one wants to live anymore. 

Let me be and try to do the impossible. Let me try to be authentic, true and honestly me.

The shadow of poverty, failure and cold toilets are hunting me. But still, let me try to be me. Not a product, nothing to sell. Just a bare soul to show. 

Just give me my space. I no longer want your recognition or your admiration. Just the space I never had. I need that space to fight against the ghosts from my past which still whispers in your goal-oriented, success-driven, old fashioned, deadly dangerous language into my ear. 

Just let me be, let me cry out, let me not manifest anything. Let me be the failure I choose to be because I didn’t manage to fit in anywhere. 

I am sorry for the pain I cause when you see me suffering. I am sorry for your pride being damaged. I am sorry for disappointing you. 

I am sorry I wasted my talents. I am sorry for the hours spent utterly unproductively, for the time I watched the sunset and sat under the oak tree. The hours in which nothing was sold, nothing produced only hours filled with tearful healing. 

I never thought I needed all my time, my strength, my talents just to create a space in which I can be and breathe. I never thought that half of my life is just cleaning up, is just fixing, just transforming trauma. I never thought my life would end up like this. It’s a shocker.

But don’t be shocked, let me show you the real work I do that nobody sees. Let me praise all these hours of endurance, let me enjoy the hours of loneliness. Let me enjoy the breathing into my pain and the reordering of my left shoulder. 

Let me be, let me be mad, let me scream, let me breathe, let me feel, let me express all the pain I endure in pretending to be normal. Let me express my truth. Let me talk about the uncomfortable, about my back pain, my neck, my closed heart, my disappointment. Let me be real. I safe my goddam sweet smile for later. 

Let me be me. Let me be powerful. Let me say it out loud that I don’t agree. Let me remind you that in being a non-productive being I honour myself and I create: I create a space for the future. 

I create a new way of living. Let me be; I am birthing new realities. 

Let me be a failure of the old, let me be a failure of a system no one truly loves.  Let me fail to have space and time to birth the new thing we are all hoping for. 

Give me my time to transform the pain of the old into the new. I do it for free, I do it for you and for me.

That’s success on another level, it’s purposeful beyond imagination. 

There is no master’s degree, no certificate, no timeline, and no budget plan. It’s just me sitting under the tree.

As long as I am alive, and I am breathing; I am transforming. Let me do my job, let me do the unseen, the unspoken, the deep woven. 

Get out of my space, let me create! 

I got my ego back, and I love it!

I must have lost it in the deep end of spirituality. I must have thought that my ego is too heavy, too old, too stubborn, too competitive and far too masculine. So I dropped it; life got lighter but not very much brighter, I felt softer and more vulnerable, tearful, sensitive and lost. I embarked on a wonderful horrific adventure through the fog of my own self, I tapped in the dark and bumped on old pains, discovered my scars and I felt the throbbing pain of my stitches. A true adventure it was, indeed. Equipped with only a  little light of understanding I explored the painfilled caves of my ancestors; overwhelmed by the discoveries I fainted and was unable to carry my burial hoards. But brave as a woman on a mission, I recovered and decided that I have to bring them up to the light and the fresh air, so eventually I could breathe again. I wasn’t strong, I wasn’t well equipped, I walked on the last string of courage only accompanied by a little glimpse of hope that this all will make sense one day. I shouldered my heavy painful fundings and walked the lonely long path back up to the bright daylight. The pain didn’t turn into gold as it does in the fairytales. Instead, I turned into a stronger me with every step I made out of the shadows. I cleared the fog, I constructed myself, I fixed my mind, I healed the stitches, I outshined the past. I realised the power of my thoughts and the strength of a decision. I honoured my emotions and their magic. Today, I am choosing new colours for my ego, like choosing a summer dress.