What’s wrong with you?

Maybe I’ll one day tally the times I’ve been asked this and maybe I won’t. What I can do is simply ask myself and finally (if given the chance) answer it without judgement and with compassion for myself. If compassion isn’t to be found outside of myself, I have to offer it. I want to. I’ve never thought myself worthy enough even if my ego had other ideas. I have never had authentic freedom to be exactly who I am and with each little repression of a real piece of me, I twisted with shame at having been rejected for it. I draw trees and have always studied trees because with each twist of the branch, there is more growth and more beauty. I’ve always been too much. I had to keep planing pieces of my soul to fit in the box I was made for.