A forewarning, there is a very emotional blog post in my near future. This is not it. This is my attempt to keep the pendulum from swinging too far into the dark, thereby taking a damn long time to come back and who has time for that, really? Because I do this thing when I know that there is something kind of heavy or uncomfortable or emotionally stormy in my head.
I refuse to write it.
And then I get sad.
And then I start to punish myself. I might buy a pack of cigarettes. Or food that I know I’ll kind of hate myself for eating later. Or I’ll just drink until I pass out, and conveniently skip brushing my teeth because I’m wined out unconscious. Which I have done the last two nights.
And I’ll wake up and it will still be there. Still waiting, patiently for me to stop resisting, stop trying to turn myself into someone I don’t like so I can justify not giving in to the truth of something.
So ok, I’ll write it. But not today. Today I got rid of the cigarette(I only had one left in the pack, but it still felt good..I thought about going back for it four times), I ate food that was yummy and good for me, I cleaned the house that had been slowly taken over by apathy goblins and I made a cup of tea. Tomorrow might be all whiskey soaked blues caterwauling in a clawfoot bathtub while I pour out my messy heart onto paper but today is about coming back to a mindset of strong enough to face it. It’s so easy to hide, whether at the end of the road or is the middle of a big city, to deny my ability to face things and understand myself better, to create the habits that help me grow, rather than sliding back into the mindset that it really doesn’t matter if I do this little thing. If I smoke one cigarette, if I..oh my god..I started to delete that smoke one cigarette part. I started to delete it because I wanted to let myself off the hook if for some reason I decide I want to have a cigarette. The voice in my head actually just said, “now why would you give yourself shit for wanting to have a smoke now and again? Seriously, everything in moderation..right?”
That just happened in real time. My mind wanted to give me permission to do something that is bad for me because it’s convinced that there will be moments in the future that I’m going to want to not like myself. How is it to notice that? That’s good, right? Especially since I’ve written it as it’s happening and left it in, which might make me sound like a crazy person, instead of deleting it and just sweeping the whole episode under the proverbial rug (which I vacuumed today, it looks beautiful again..gala is out looking for a stick to chew to bits on it since hers have all disappeared..).
Growth is tricky. Sometimes all this introspection feels like masturbation. Feels like self-love lip service. Maybe I just really like thinking about myself because I’m incomparably self-absorbed. But statements like that feel like a backslide into the comfort of self-deprecation. It’s so damn common. At any rate, it’s really late and I’m tired because I’ve been doing battle with the head talk that really doesn’t see any need to change. How ironic is it that my favourite word in every language I’ve ever heard (read) it in, is butterfly.
Whether it’s lepetka, kupukupu, schmetterling, farfalla, kimimi, mariposa, papillon, bili bala, iveveshane, sommerfugl, pulelehua (Roma, indonesian, german, italian, sioux, spanish, french, welsh, zulu, danish, hawaiian..for the record) I love it in every language. In ancient greek? Psyche.
The definition of psyche? One random internet spot.. from the
How appropos that the word for the soul, mind spirit should also represent a creature whose very existence depends on an ability to evolve and transform within it’s life cycle.
This chrysalis heart,
wrapped up tight
She thought she was protecting herself from the pain
In denial of the symphony
She found herself bereft of cohesion
Parts with no sum,
A melody of dischord.
Lost sight of the wild,
At odds with her inherent nature,
Confused by the desire
to be consumed
by the calm,
she mistook drowning for a pervasive sensethat she finally learned how to keep still.
She has forgotten that she carries the storm
in her back pocket,
to have on hand
When the need for inspiration strikes.
As often as it needs to.
For this moment,
But not many more
she is trapped in a pattern,
a static slumber.
Every passing moment,
her tumultuous dreams
filled with memories of light
And the music that sings in her soul.