Wholeness in Action
TRIGGER WARNING: suicidal thoughts.
Today has been a shit day.
The shittiest shit day.
All of it is in me, a feeling of discontent, of wrong, of confusion, of something in crying out, "NO NO NO NO NO," and yet I soldiered on, ignoring it. Blaming circumstances.
As I planned this post in my head, I thought I would start by saying how hard it is for me to write because I hate letting people down.
But then it hit me—yes, a LARGE part of me feels frustrated with what I need to say.
That part is Mind.
But Soul? She is so fucking proud of me right now.
Mind doesn’t like to let others down. Give others ammunition to make judgments about me.
Soul doesn’t want to fail *me*.
So I was preparing tomorrow’s post, talking about my food consumption within the scope of wholeness, and I was overcome with anger. A reality TV show where the people who feel so icky to me keep winning majorly triggered me. I felt everything in me wanting to explode with hopelessness.
The storm catapulted over me.
It is one I know too well, one that blankets the world in soggy black fog and I cannot breathe.
I know I am deeply, dangerously triggered when I feel suffocated. When I am ready I will tell you why, but it stems from a horror that few humans will ever know.
When I feel suffocated, my chest--where my untouchable lest it kill me trauma is located--begins to feel like it will implode.
I want to die.
Actually, literally be blown to bits and done with this life, this world.
We don't own a gun and never will because I cannot be sure that in one of these moments I wouldn't unlock the safe, take the weapon, walk into the woods, and swallow the steel that will end the drowning darkness once and for all.
I picked a fight with my husband and hunkered down, trying to write the post. Everything in me that has been so off all day began to scream and I felt that deep ache to end it, the helpless fury that I know I won't but I just fucking want to.
Normally when I write the sparks flit in anticipation, and then I sit at KamMak (sidenote: yes, my MacBook Pro is named after Kam Chancellor. I really, really fucking love the Seattle Seahawks, who actually were the source of my last episode like this), and the flames spectacularly slice the night sky as my soul is fueled by freedom.
Today I wrote on edge, angry, choking on the granules of flame retardant as I pressed in to just get it fucking done and over with.
Because I said I would.
In one exquisite moment of bright and glorious light I stopped.
I listened to my soul.
She told me that writing about my diet and exercise isn't something I should do.
She's been telling me all day but I was like, "Fuck that, I said I would and people have been looking forward to it so I'm keeping my word."
And by "I" we allllll know I mean Mind.
But Soul told me to stop, to listen to Body.
And I heard her. She was faint, in a distant room of the house.
I am sobbing as I write this, barely able to see the screen, primal sounds escaping my throat as Body physically releases her agony.
Body didn't have words. She just cried, and I felt her. I wasn't physically crying (yet) but I could feel the anguish all locked up that I refused to feel break out through every nerve ending, every brain synapse, every motherfucking toe and finger nail.
I put on a song that I have been obsessed with for the last 3-4 days (that you'll hear about at the end) and just let myself feel. As art so often does for me, I was able to stop all input and experience what is in me. And I was free.
I kicked down the doors of the room into which I had locked Body.
I went to her. I looked her in the eye.
And I knew Body.
We embraced. Saline streams flooded our faces, and we connected.
And I knew everything I was trying to write was shit.
It isn't untrue, it just isn't what I am supposed to be saying.
I decided a long time ago that, in terms of health and beauty products, I will never shill you shit. I will never recommend something I am not actually legitimately loving and telling my best friends to try.
Yet there I was, forcing shit from an overflown toilet into a post, all because I said I would write about food and exercise this week.
What if you think I am a trickster? That I intentionally am just stringing you along, some fucking game to try and drum up page views?
I asked myself why I cared so much.
And then I knew two people have mentioned wanting to know what I am "doing" and I felt beholden to say it.
Like it is the point.
The point is to be true to myself. To be whole.
That matters to ME.
I know it matters to all of the people feeling these writings burst open their own wholeness journeys, too.
My rock people want to see me be whole.
And those original two people want my wholeness, too.
There is literally nothing to be afraid of.
If anyone reads this and is like, "Bitch, you are the worst," then um, HI THERE.
I said it Saturday.
If you are disappointed in me, put off by me, disgusted by me being true to my own soul and body?
You are a paper person.
If you can't handle this heat no hard feelings.
So I am stopped, Loves.
I'm listening. Feeling.
The suffocating black fog has lifted and I am back to bright.
Will diet and exercise info come? I think so, yes, but not yet. I have more feeling and listening to do, and then I'll know what to say because I'll have lived it.
For now, I am going to keep listening to This is Me on repeat (both the Kesha and Keala Settle versions), I am going to keep sobbing every damn time, and my self-assigned homework is to finally watch the actual movie The Greatest Showman before I post again.
I will be back. I promise. Probably in a couple of days, to be honest, because now all these other words are pressing up against the edges, begging to spill over.
But trust me.
Let me do it in a way that honors my whole self.
Be one of my rock people.
And, dearest beloved readers, please learn from me and listen to your own bodies and souls, too, okay?
Let us all be whole.
Let us always fuel our fire.