I thought I was over it.
It’s been years.
But, it’s not like it’s been years and I didn’t do shit about it.
No, I processed.
I grieved, lost my way, found the map and got back on the path.
(like a machine?)
I don’t want to cry, I tell her.
Like she’s expecting me to.
“That’s ok! You don’t have to. It’ll find its way up.”
(my jaw tightens)
No, but that’s the thing.
This ain’t my first time at the rodeo.
I’ve balled, girl.
Slobbered, face distorted and all kinds of ugly.
(I’m getting tired)
Continue reading “’til you’re ready”
1. I believe in Evolution, the process of upleveling.
2. I love to laugh and see, by first account, how humor unites us.
3. Yoga / meditation / a healthy lifestyle are my jams.
4. If it’s not a “Hell Yes!” I’m not doing it.
5. I want to cry when I start to sing.
6. I believe empathy is the secret sauce to healing and change.
7. Curiosity and Beginner’s Mind are the most frequented tools in my tool box.
8. “I Have Time” is my new religion.
9. My father’s death taught me how fleeting this life is.
10. Love is Love is Love is Love is Love.
When do I come first?
No, that’s a real question.
Is it after peeing and before taking my probiotics?
Is it after my tea brews and before I check email?
Is it once Jackie is walked, pissed, pooed and fed?
When do I show up for me?
After cleaning up the kitchen and before the clock hits 10am?
After taking out the trash and before the rest of my to-do list comes a-knockin’?
Am I worth the investment?
Time for me hits home the hardest when I see someone else doing it.
A “Wow”, a respect, an inspiration; sometimes an anger, a jealousy, an envy – all of those feelings come flying out of —
My heart? My soul? The little voice within?
I struggle with balance everyday. I know you do too.
Call mum (it’s been a while), connect with best friend, look boyfriend in the eyeballs when he shares a story, hold off the worry/panic/stress/concern/time racing. Leave that at the door. For now. This here. A moment.
You can start now.
FADE IN: two at lunch.
She: It’s like the texture of smoke.
She: You can see smoke even though it’s translucent.
She: That’s how it felt. It’s there but not.
He: Dark but translucent.
She: Uh-huh. I guess that’s progress, right?
He: I would say. It was way worse before…
She: I know… I still feel the darkness, though.
He: I’m sure that doesn’t go away. I mean, not right away.
She: It can get scary.
He: So, why don’t you call me?
She: I wanted to but for some reason, I couldn’t.
She: Weird how that happens; we’re mute but screaming for help.
He: I get it.
“What are we trying to heal, anyway?
The athlete knows the day will never come when he wakes up pain-free. He has to play hurt.
Remember, the part of us that we imagine needs healing is not the part we create from; that part is far deeper and stronger.
The part we create from can’t be touched by anything our parents did, or society did. That part is unsullied, uncorrupted; soundproof, waterproof, and bulletproof.
In fact, the more troubles we’ve got, the better and richer that part becomes.”
― Steven Pressfield, The War of Art
I love you oceans.
She says, not just to me.
It’s hard to hear from her.
It’s like the sting from rubbing alcohol.
Why didn’t I matter?
No return phone call.
The worst punishment.
Punishable by death.
And I’m in the chair.
Talented, skinny, sexy, confident, fun, adventurous, a killer IG account.
I know, superficial, but JesusChrist does that count in my brain.
Pride envelopes me.
Fuck you, on heated lips, on repeat.
Thick black ash in my heart.
Those things work.
Don’t be a child.
I mean it!
What is this, medieval times?
More like blessings beyond reach, an avalanche.
I wish you,
Cuz you’re fuckin’ talented and I love you.
I love you.
He’s just too much. It’s like I’m living with a teenager. And it’s really ethereal; he gets on your nerves in this really subtle, papercut way. Tiny actions that add up.
He doesn’t pick up after himself, he leaves the water filter empty, he puts his dirty runners on the couch, he never washes the dishes, he comes home past 2am drunk every night – you can hear him staggering into bed, reeking of cigarettes.
That part? I can tolerate that.
Hard to believe, but it’s true.
I can tolerate all of it.
It’s the subtle shit that makes me want to blow my brains out.
He never asks me how I’m doing, he never asks how my day went. He walks into a room, interrupts a conversation and starts talking about the failed connection he just had with this woman and that.
But get this.
He doesn’t see it as a failure; there’s a kind of delusions of grandeur happening. Time and time again, women have shown in their very mercurial, catlike, non-confrontational ways: they’re not interested.
So, why don’t you get it?
They don’t write back. They don’t call back. They ignore you. Broken promises. They say thanks but no thanks by not saying it.
That part would make me wanna blow my brains out too.
Women suck at communicating with the opposite sex. Period. Continue reading “you’re not alone”