When you’re ill, I feel like I’m in constant fight mode. Like, constantly fighting to keep alive – survive. To keep it together, to eat, to be dressed, to be met where I need to be met, to get the help I need to get, to write, to read, to wash…to just get by, it all takes fight.
It all takes my sympathetic nervous system in full swing for me to be able to do anything. This can’t be (and isn’t) healthy. This is like a recipe for adrenal fatigue – introducing here what I already have, in heavy dosage and has been so acutely here this last week or so.
But it’s because I push. I push I push I push. I push myself from a place of survival and a place of needing to be alive, and i push from a place without the proof that the world would still go round and I would still be okay, if I didn’t push push push. I feel like I haven’t lived enough years of gentleness to have any proof that it works. It’s only been a matter of weeks. And within those weeks it’s somewhat come and gone. It’s taken me months to get here, to this place where all I need is gentleness and to a place where I’m beginning to perhaps trust that maybe it is actually safe and okay and it ‘does work’, so maybe these months count too. I have a feeling they do.
It’s all a bit of a mammoth journey, and as I continue to deepen into the idea of gentleness and the idea that you can live a life that isn’t based on STRESS or living in a constant place of fight (or flight), I begin to see that this is my lesson and my journey and my teachings. Amongst other things.
It’s to listen to that motherfucking voice in my head that’s ALWAYS telling me to push myself harder. To always do the tough thing. To always choose the option that will make me feel like shit or stress me out or push me to my limit.
The funny – not fucking HA HA funny (well maybe a bit) – thing is that these lessons keep on getting more and more extreme. And the ways of pushing become more and more small and tiny. Like, rather than before it would’ve been drinking three cups of coffee or working a 13 hour shift, it’s slowly dwindled down to whether I hang out the washing or whether I do one too many dishes that trip me up. Fuck me, that’s ridiculous. But it is what it is…Even if it is a silly bitch.
Like, with my back I literally cannot hardly move if I do too much. I’m in bed for a few days and go shooting backwards on my road to recovery. If I do only just a bit too much I have to lie down for twenty minutes at least to make up for the one bowl I just cleaned.
And y’know what’s more mental? The idea that the world would actually go round and I would actually be okay if I didn’t push myself and push myself and be constantly stressed. Even if what I’m stressing about doing or trying to do is much smaller than anything i’d have stressed about doing before. I’m guessing this is a core belief – a belief that things can’t be easy, things can’t be smoothe, things can’t be different.
What I hear the most as I write this and as I witness my inner thoughts today is the crazy loud shouting coffee drinking monster who is constantly on a bender. Who has clearly been to Starbucks and has a daily fucking membership down the drive thru isle. It’s my inner bully who likes to snort white stuff out of a topless girls belly button. It’s the rally car driver who revs the engine up full speed and doesn’t stop til he crashes over the barriers or runs out of petrol.
I think I need to draw this guy out, whoever he is. He sounds great if he wasn’t IN MY HEAD and my bod. Maybe I need to find a way that he can become my mate rather than my coffee drinking, coke snorting, rally car driving nemesis. He hangs out with my perfectionist too – I think they compliment each other. Two blinding opposites, but when together – a motherfucking Stress Head Team.