#hello i am alive i am truckin along

[the-mortifying-ordeal-of]

"I just, I just wanna feel good"

she begs, smoking and doping and fucking and numbing.

Babes, you know what feels good. You've been writing about it and fighting for it for years. Don't try harder, try softer. Get into your body, find your tapas, sweat and breathe. Touch your face, hold a palm to your heart, allow the tears. Believe in yourself, trust the process, drink water and eat plants and fill your freezer with whole meals. Go to bed early and wake up early. Move and listen: you have two ears, one mouth. Read your literature and live into your program. Try, forgive, let go, love, try again. You are beautiful and fierce and true. I love you and I'm listening, remember? Keep forgetting, because you're only human, but keep remembering and saying hello to your old friends. Hold space, feel it all, move through it, rest. Say thank you. Mean it. Laugh and be honest and know you belong, know they all belong here with you, too. You're not lost, not too far from home. I have intuition and wisdom and everything I need. I can say no and have it mean nothing about other people, nothing about my worth, and still say no. I can be perfect and broken, repaired with gold, whole in awe, divine love and messy simplicity. I can't be everything but thank god; I do trust the process. I know I belong here. You eat the elephant one bite at a time.

(I'm so scared. I'm so small. I feel wrong, overwhelmed, mortified, so so scared. I feel so cold and alone and tired. I feel violent, messy, contemptible. I'm sorry all the time, not enough, too much, dishonest and disoriented and wrong wrong wrong.)

Who cares what my stories are? They're just thoughts, just stories, just beliefs that I feed. Wouldn't I rather believe a beautiful story? Wouldn't I rather be wrong and happy, naïve and loving, imperfect but present? What if I am meeting expectations, or what if the expectations have nothing to do with me? What do I owe other people? What do I owe myself?

My dad thought himself into his grave, couldn't think his way into recovery. His notebooks were so much like my blogs, cosmic wrestling with sin and grace, mind and spirit. It killed him. He couldn't ego his way out of ego. His fatal blood is in me, her brutal superficiality keeps me bound. This isn't how it happens, something whispers to me from off-stage. This isn't my story. I'm fighting to love better, love bigger, and take me with me. I can be whole, I can be hope, I can do this. I'm doing it, I've been doing it, I'm so proud of you. It's been so hard but so beautiful.

Last night I was washed in a sense memory of being in our original studio, those community center partitions, the sounds of little kid karate during savasana, pushing myself and crying from frustration and laughing when I would have previously screamed, trying when I would have previously quit, finding myself. I loved the chair wall, loved the clock wall, loved the small talk as we packed up and the debriefs driving home. I loved being seen and believed in, building our community, always rolling on my side to extend a pointed foot to nudge you. I can't roll on my side anymore, still feel your absence, but it had been so long since I looked to the past with love. I loved those rooms. They saved me. I'm saved, ever-balancing, and I can carry all that with me. That was a true thing, a real thing.

My throat feels so tight. I feel like I've slipped from grace, lost my way. I know better and I'm not doing better. It doesn't feel better. It feels vastly more complicated. This too this too this too I remind myself, but it doesn't feel real. I feel like I'm languishing, muddling through, truckin' along but not fully alive. I'm an ant gnawing at saran wrap. I know what I'm supposed to be doing but I've lost my drive, lost my serenity, ever out of touch with my self-love, loving-kindness, compassion. I'm so scared at work. I'm so scared of sex. I want to stay home and get fucked up and read escapism romance. I cannot stop smoking. I feel stuck. That gallon and a half of cabbage hasn't fixed me. I don't have as much money as I'd like. I don't feel capable. I'm cold and scared and I feel like a burden, because I'm meant to be the healed healer, the recovery advocate, the mental health champion and evidence-based-practice poster child. I schedule my salads and can quote so many interventions, and yet I am without ritual, without tether, the center cannot hold. I'm so easily distracted, fatigued, overwhelmed, despairing. Ever-annoyed with my own shit, a common refrain. My thoughts a bad neighborhood, my own company toxic. I know how to fix this, and I don't, haven't yet.

You've lost the thread, babe. Do the next right thing. Urge surf. Use your resources. Be honest, tell the whole truth, be a beginner, breathe, soften, trust, love, move, laugh, rest, try. You can do this. You've done it so many times before and come so far. You haven't lost that progress. Inner peace, motherfucker. You can always wake up, always remember, always start again. You're not bad at this, not bad at all.

(What would it be like if I told her no all the time? Genuinely said no, had her hear my no? Would I want it? What would be left? Try it more, please. Say no. You won't be too small, you won't be too boring. Please say no all the time. Prune and burn and purify, love; you'll still be here when it's all gone. You can say no and breathe in the space you create. Try it please? For me? You have no idea what beauty and capacity the future holds for you, but I think it starts with saying no to what isn't working. You don't have to know what works, first. Just say no when you feel no, know no. You're okay, I promise. I'm here for you. You're so good and you can say no as much as you need to. You're resilient and loyal and honest and capable, AND you can say no. You aren't a quitter, aren't a princess. Those are old stories. Breathe into your no and feel how safe and good we are.)

We'll figure out work. There is so much need in the world, I have so many resources, and I have so many gifts, so many ways I feel flow above the line. Money will be okay. I have enough, and know how to survive and thrive. There is enough for everyone. We can figure this out. I'm not alone.

Action items: meditate? drink water. take benadryl to get back on a sleep schedule. listen to podcasts or audiobooks and do sudoku before bed? deal with the rest tomorrow. <3

[heisenboig]

the freddie mercury energy in my spotify playlists was strong this week.