Denying yourself of joy: it don’t work

I used to always, for about a year and a half, stop myself doing something I loved because I knew that the joy would end once stopping whatever it is I chose to do, and I’d be left with the darkness and the sorrow that was so deeply there within minutes. Or sometimes I was scared that the sorrow wouldn’t even budge, even if I dove head first into doing something I loved, and that just felt too painful to bare. There was no point. But also, and perhaps the main culprit, was that I’d stop myself because I knew how good it would feel and I was scared of that…scared of the niceness. I didn’t want that for myself, yet another part of me longed for it and desperately needed it. I began to notice myself consciously saying no to, and avoiding, doing something or going places I would love for fear of both those things. It was horrible.

That doesn’t happen anymore. I suddenly realised that this morning. I merrily do things, not once stopping myself out of fear of feeling good or fear of feeling not-so-good afterwards. I don’t even think about that. And, I can be with whatever comes up afterwards or during…joy, anger, sorrow, pain, happiness, grief, love. It’s like my worlds of feelings blend together more. They’re more integrated, less destructive. There’s not so much ‘black and white’, all or nothing…instead joy and sorrow flow together rather than hitting hard on both ends. Sure, this was a classic symptom of depression, the self denying. And to me it’s also a classic symptom of lack of self love, worthiness, and the rest of that chatter.

That’s pretty fucking cool it don’t happen any more. I never really felt like that old way of doing things, or not doing things, was ‘me’ anyways. It sucked. And it was a foreign fucking concept the whole time I noticed I was doing it, yet I couldn’t stop it. It was like a mean ass catch 22. There was the addictive self destruct gremlin that ran right through that way of living – I was too scared to drop the notion of self sabotage and denying myself of fun, because that just felt like the most comfortable and familiar place to be. The idea of being somewhere where I allowed myself joy and happiness and nurturance and NICENESS was the most scary thing ever. Yet it was what I so desperately craved. Holy shit it was painful. In many ways I still fear all that niceness, but slowly, slowly, those fears aren’t being fed anymore. Instead they’re being laughed at, kicked in the nuts, or warmly invited in for tea and gently but sternly proven otherwise.

I’m not entirely sure when or how it changed but it has, and I have a funny feeling that my friend Healing had something to do with it.

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