I Like Healing in Public Spaces | FLINCH | Loui Crow Lyric Magnet 4x4

$7.00

A line from a song called Flinch. It is from my album GORGEOUS. The first one I released. The scream. The one I wrote before I could look in the mirror.
But that line did not come from a place of peace. It came from a place of rage. And I want to tell you what that means.
The song starts with a quote: "Please consider a self-inflicted gunshot." That was a comment. Someone wrote that to me on a mirror livestream I was doing. The part of me that used to pray to die heard that and that old part of me was still close enough that it stirred those feelings up. I wanted to delete everything and disappear. But I flinched. And flinching means I am still alive.
I have been thinking about that moment a lot because I remember wanting to die. Since I was a kid. When I have lived in depression for years, like years, it becomes my baseline. It is not even a feeling anymore. It is just the weather. I do not notice it until it lifts.
And then one day I looked back and I realized I had not wanted to disappear in a while.
But the memory of that wanting never fully leaves. It lives in my body. It lives in my cells. It lives in the way my shoulders brace when someone raises their voice or I don’t hear them come into the room. It lives in the way my jaw tightens when I am holding words back. It lives in the flinch.
So when I got that comment, it did not make me want to die. It stirred the old feeling. It reminded me how I used to respond to conflict, by wanting to disappear. By wanting to erase myself so I would not have to feel the shame of being seen.
Attention means criticism. I learned that young. I learned it in the way my mother pinched the back of my arms, hard, where no one else could see. I learned it in the way my father lectured for hours about what I was doing wrong, and how I “should” feel about things. I learned it in the way they told me I was "too sensitive," "too much," "too dramatic."
So I learned to be small. I learned to fold my hands. I learned to swallow my howl and pretend I did not need anything.
And then, one day, I did not want to live anymore.
I was ten the first time I remember thinking about it. Ten years old. I stared at the road and imagined opening the door. Just rolling out. Letting the pavement take me.
"I wanted to walk into traffic. No scream. Just headlights erasing the in-between."
I spent so many years like that. Waiting. Praying. Hoping something would just end it for me so I would not have to do it myself. But the thing about wanting to die and not doing it is I am still here. And at some point, I have to figure out what to do with that.
For me, it was anger. Anger is higher on the emotional ladder than depression. Abraham Hicks taught me that. Depression is the bottom. Hopelessness. Helplessness. Despair. Anger is a step up. It is not where I want to stay but it means I am climbing.
I lived in anger for years. And honestly, I needed to. Because anger gave me energy. It gave me a voice. It gave me permission to say, "You do not get to do that to me anymore."
But anger is also dangerous. It can leak out sideways. It can land on the people I love.
I was yelling at my toddler. I was biting my poor husband's head off. I was so activated all the time that my nervous system was just screaming. I was also trying to not parent my son in the authoritarian way, but it’s also all I knew at the time. 
And I hated it. I hated the person I was becoming. I didn’t know where to put the anger and reactions I had towards him.
So I started doing rage fits. I would go into the yard with a rake and just swing. Whack the ground. Beat the crap out of it. I would scream into the open air. I would let my body do what it needed to do, all the rage I had swallowed for years, finally moving through me. (Rage journaling helped with that too.)
And it worked. I started yelling at my son less. I started snapping at my husband less. The rage had a place to go. It did not have to leak out sideways anymore because I was giving it an outlet.
Louise Hay taught me that the body holds what the mind will not process. She literally has a map, emotional patterns and their physical manifestations. Back pain equals repressed anger. Headaches equal invalidating myself. Migraines equal resistance to life and sexual fears.
I had all of them and more. And I had them because I had been holding everything in for years. My body loves me so much that it created pain just to distract me from the feelings I refused to feel.
"I tie that rake to grief like proof. Not to mourn, but to speak my truth."
That is what the rake was for me. Speaking. Getting the truth out of my body and into the world where I could see it.
So when I say "I like healing in public spaces," I mean I like that people see me flinch. I like that people see me rage. I like that people see me struggle, because when they see me struggling, they realize they are not alone.
The comments on my posts sometimes say things like I am a "narcissist." They say I am "animus-possessed." They say I am "clinging to grief like it is a gift." They say I "should put the rake down and get a therapist."
And I get it. I really do. Because healing in public looks strange to people who have been taught to heal in private, or stuff it down. It looks messy. It looks raw. It looks like I am performing when really I am just living out loud.
But here is what I know:
"Hide your howl. Be small. Be kind. Swallow storms. Make sure you smile. They will love you more if you stay mild."
That is what I was taught. That is what I believed. That is what almost killed me.
So now I do the opposite.
I show the messy parts. I show the rage. I show the flinch. I show the mirror work, the real stuff, the stuff that is happening in real time. I show the part of me that used to pray to die and I say, "I am glad I stayed."
Because I am not healing in spite of people watching. I am healing because people are watching. Because someone needs to see that it is possible. Because if I can look in the mirror and say "I love you," someone else might try it too.

"I never wanted to live. But I'm glad I did."
And the middle is all the flinching. All the rage. All the raking. All the bad days. All the good days. All the days I wanted to delete everything and disappear, and I did not.
I am still flinching. I am still rising. I am still healing in public.
And I am glad I stayed.
I did not share my story because I wanted attention. I don’t like a lot of attention. I share it because if Louise Hay had not shared her breadcrumbs, I would not be here. Literally.
I share because someone shared for me. And I am not going to let that go.
It is about the person who needs to see someone else surviving the thing they are surviving. It is about the person who needs to know they are not broken. It is about the person who needs permission to flinch, and to rise anyway.
I still do not love social media. I cut it out for 2.5 years, no screens, no Wi-Fi, no social media, nothing. And honestly, it was really nice. But I come back to share breadcrumbs.
Because someone shared breadcrumbs for me. And now I get to be the person who leaves them for others.
Honestly, you do not need my product to remember that you are capable of healing. I mostly just wanted to put the thought out there so maybe someone else does not feel so alone or maybe they can see a light in their tunnel.
"I like healing in public spaces."
Know that whatever you are carrying, whatever you are flinching from, you are not alone.
I have been there in my own ways. I am still here. Still flinching. Still rising. Still glad I stayed. Not a single step was wasted.
Crow is watching. Thank you for looking. 🐦‍⬛
Product Description:
They feature a modern matte finish on top and a strong magnetic material on the back, so they’ll hold up well and look great for years to come. These magnets are a practical and stylish solution for holding up photos, notes, or other small items.

• Made from 0.5 mm flexible vinyl • Premium matte finish • Magnetic black backing
Age restrictions: For adults EU Warranty: 2 years
Other compliance information: Meets the flammability, lead, cadmium, mercury, phthalates, magnetic strength, and heavy metals level requirements.

In compliance with the General Product Safety Regulation (GPSR), Oak inc. and SINDEN VENTURES LIMITED ensure that all consumer products offered are safe and meet EU standards. For any product safety related inquiries or concerns, please contact our EU representative at gpsr@sindenventures.com. You can also write to us at 123 Main Street, Anytown, Country or Markou Evgenikou 11, Mesa Geitonia, 4002, Limassol, Cyprus.

A line from a song called Flinch. It is from my album GORGEOUS. The first one I released. The scream. The one I wrote before I could look in the mirror.
But that line did not come from a place of peace. It came from a place of rage. And I want to tell you what that means.
The song starts with a quote: "Please consider a self-inflicted gunshot." That was a comment. Someone wrote that to me on a mirror livestream I was doing. The part of me that used to pray to die heard that and that old part of me was still close enough that it stirred those feelings up. I wanted to delete everything and disappear. But I flinched. And flinching means I am still alive.
I have been thinking about that moment a lot because I remember wanting to die. Since I was a kid. When I have lived in depression for years, like years, it becomes my baseline. It is not even a feeling anymore. It is just the weather. I do not notice it until it lifts.
And then one day I looked back and I realized I had not wanted to disappear in a while.
But the memory of that wanting never fully leaves. It lives in my body. It lives in my cells. It lives in the way my shoulders brace when someone raises their voice or I don’t hear them come into the room. It lives in the way my jaw tightens when I am holding words back. It lives in the flinch.
So when I got that comment, it did not make me want to die. It stirred the old feeling. It reminded me how I used to respond to conflict, by wanting to disappear. By wanting to erase myself so I would not have to feel the shame of being seen.
Attention means criticism. I learned that young. I learned it in the way my mother pinched the back of my arms, hard, where no one else could see. I learned it in the way my father lectured for hours about what I was doing wrong, and how I “should” feel about things. I learned it in the way they told me I was "too sensitive," "too much," "too dramatic."
So I learned to be small. I learned to fold my hands. I learned to swallow my howl and pretend I did not need anything.
And then, one day, I did not want to live anymore.
I was ten the first time I remember thinking about it. Ten years old. I stared at the road and imagined opening the door. Just rolling out. Letting the pavement take me.
"I wanted to walk into traffic. No scream. Just headlights erasing the in-between."
I spent so many years like that. Waiting. Praying. Hoping something would just end it for me so I would not have to do it myself. But the thing about wanting to die and not doing it is I am still here. And at some point, I have to figure out what to do with that.
For me, it was anger. Anger is higher on the emotional ladder than depression. Abraham Hicks taught me that. Depression is the bottom. Hopelessness. Helplessness. Despair. Anger is a step up. It is not where I want to stay but it means I am climbing.
I lived in anger for years. And honestly, I needed to. Because anger gave me energy. It gave me a voice. It gave me permission to say, "You do not get to do that to me anymore."
But anger is also dangerous. It can leak out sideways. It can land on the people I love.
I was yelling at my toddler. I was biting my poor husband's head off. I was so activated all the time that my nervous system was just screaming. I was also trying to not parent my son in the authoritarian way, but it’s also all I knew at the time. 
And I hated it. I hated the person I was becoming. I didn’t know where to put the anger and reactions I had towards him.
So I started doing rage fits. I would go into the yard with a rake and just swing. Whack the ground. Beat the crap out of it. I would scream into the open air. I would let my body do what it needed to do, all the rage I had swallowed for years, finally moving through me. (Rage journaling helped with that too.)
And it worked. I started yelling at my son less. I started snapping at my husband less. The rage had a place to go. It did not have to leak out sideways anymore because I was giving it an outlet.
Louise Hay taught me that the body holds what the mind will not process. She literally has a map, emotional patterns and their physical manifestations. Back pain equals repressed anger. Headaches equal invalidating myself. Migraines equal resistance to life and sexual fears.
I had all of them and more. And I had them because I had been holding everything in for years. My body loves me so much that it created pain just to distract me from the feelings I refused to feel.
"I tie that rake to grief like proof. Not to mourn, but to speak my truth."
That is what the rake was for me. Speaking. Getting the truth out of my body and into the world where I could see it.
So when I say "I like healing in public spaces," I mean I like that people see me flinch. I like that people see me rage. I like that people see me struggle, because when they see me struggling, they realize they are not alone.
The comments on my posts sometimes say things like I am a "narcissist." They say I am "animus-possessed." They say I am "clinging to grief like it is a gift." They say I "should put the rake down and get a therapist."
And I get it. I really do. Because healing in public looks strange to people who have been taught to heal in private, or stuff it down. It looks messy. It looks raw. It looks like I am performing when really I am just living out loud.
But here is what I know:
"Hide your howl. Be small. Be kind. Swallow storms. Make sure you smile. They will love you more if you stay mild."
That is what I was taught. That is what I believed. That is what almost killed me.
So now I do the opposite.
I show the messy parts. I show the rage. I show the flinch. I show the mirror work, the real stuff, the stuff that is happening in real time. I show the part of me that used to pray to die and I say, "I am glad I stayed."
Because I am not healing in spite of people watching. I am healing because people are watching. Because someone needs to see that it is possible. Because if I can look in the mirror and say "I love you," someone else might try it too.

"I never wanted to live. But I'm glad I did."
And the middle is all the flinching. All the rage. All the raking. All the bad days. All the good days. All the days I wanted to delete everything and disappear, and I did not.
I am still flinching. I am still rising. I am still healing in public.
And I am glad I stayed.
I did not share my story because I wanted attention. I don’t like a lot of attention. I share it because if Louise Hay had not shared her breadcrumbs, I would not be here. Literally.
I share because someone shared for me. And I am not going to let that go.
It is about the person who needs to see someone else surviving the thing they are surviving. It is about the person who needs to know they are not broken. It is about the person who needs permission to flinch, and to rise anyway.
I still do not love social media. I cut it out for 2.5 years, no screens, no Wi-Fi, no social media, nothing. And honestly, it was really nice. But I come back to share breadcrumbs.
Because someone shared breadcrumbs for me. And now I get to be the person who leaves them for others.
Honestly, you do not need my product to remember that you are capable of healing. I mostly just wanted to put the thought out there so maybe someone else does not feel so alone or maybe they can see a light in their tunnel.
"I like healing in public spaces."
Know that whatever you are carrying, whatever you are flinching from, you are not alone.
I have been there in my own ways. I am still here. Still flinching. Still rising. Still glad I stayed. Not a single step was wasted.
Crow is watching. Thank you for looking. 🐦‍⬛
Product Description:
They feature a modern matte finish on top and a strong magnetic material on the back, so they’ll hold up well and look great for years to come. These magnets are a practical and stylish solution for holding up photos, notes, or other small items.

• Made from 0.5 mm flexible vinyl • Premium matte finish • Magnetic black backing
Age restrictions: For adults EU Warranty: 2 years
Other compliance information: Meets the flammability, lead, cadmium, mercury, phthalates, magnetic strength, and heavy metals level requirements.

In compliance with the General Product Safety Regulation (GPSR), Oak inc. and SINDEN VENTURES LIMITED ensure that all consumer products offered are safe and meet EU standards. For any product safety related inquiries or concerns, please contact our EU representative at gpsr@sindenventures.com. You can also write to us at 123 Main Street, Anytown, Country or Markou Evgenikou 11, Mesa Geitonia, 4002, Limassol, Cyprus.