Rose tainted lens

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Lately I’ve noticed how much I resist being in the ‘now’ because my life doesn’t look like how I want it to. It doesn’t look ANYTHING like how I thought it would, dreamt it would, believed it would, hoped it would, or wanted it to like…so it just means I fucking hate a lot about the ‘present’, if I really let myself be in it…like, proper in it. Not just mindfulness within myself, my body, but mindfulness of everything around me. Not just the trees, the birds singing, the beautiful sun shining through the clouds…I mean really looking at where I am geographically, in front of me and on the map, and really breathing that in and really noticing how that makes me feel.

Heartbreak. Hatred. Longing. Hating. Wanting. Wishing. Hoping…they are normally the sensations and feelings I notice. When I’m being mindful with a little bit of me left outside of the ‘now’ and sitting in imagined reality, then I have a bit of peace. I have a bit of hope. I am not left in a pit of wondering how the FUCK I got here…wondering where the FUCK I am going. When I allow myself to daydream or to look at the present a little differently, a little with rose tainted glasses and a hopeful grin, I am okay with where I am. But when I look at it with what feels like ‘real eyes’, I almost cannot handle it. Hence hardly doing it very often.

This is not where I want to be. This is not who I thought I would be. This is not what I wanted to be. This is not what I was going to be. This is not what I was going to do.

Is this being twenty-something? Is this me still finding my feet with where I find myself in adulthood? Is this me ‘coming to terms with’ the person I am becoming? Is this me wondering where on earth I am going? I laughed when I wrote those last two questions. ‘Coming to terms with the person I’m becoming’…that feels sad, but quite funny, that I would write that!

I feel like imagination and rose tainted glasses, make things hopeful. I see things how I want to see them. But maybe this is okay? Because it keeps me happy. It keeps me from feeling the grief, the pain, that I feel when I really see myself for where I am now. The grief and pain of when I look at my life how it is now doesn’t overwhelm so intensely, when I have on my rose tainted glasses.

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Another thing I’ve noticed, with the refusing to allow or accept for where I’m at, is the resistance towards feeling supported by the world, life, the universe. “When I look back, I see only miracles”, is one of my favourite quotes (I have no idea who it’s by…) but when I hate how much my life has not felt like mine, and how much it’s felt like a dream, I cannot help but feel MEGA resistance to the fact that actually, when I look back, I have always been so, so, so looked after by life and where I have found myself. I have always, always, had what I need…in times I have had NO idea how it would come to me.

But this feeling of being in a dream and this feeling of life not really belonging to me, not being truly mine – the idea that I am not where I wanted or should or ever thought I would be, feels at the root of this resistance. And it kinda makes sense.

How am I supposed to be grateful, when where I find myself is not where I want to be? How am I supposed to feel looked after when the support is for a life I didn’t think I would lead? How am I supposed to allow myself to grieve for what was, when I don’t fucking like what is now. Sure there is a shit tonne of beauty, but there always is, wherever I am. Thing is, the rest of what is, is shit…it’s not where I want to be. But I can look at it through the rose tainted, hopeful, glasses. Or I can look at it through the ones that don’t fit me – the glasses that don’t agree with me.

Either way, I do want to feel more present with the present. I do want to be able to sit with the now, more. To sit with where I truly am – rose tainted lens’ or real, uncomfy ones – and be able to be with the feelings, the realisms…I think part of this is growing up, but I also think that part of this is recovering from the overdose. I remember my therapist saying that people have told her that the time following an attempt is like a ‘bad trip’. I’ve never had a bad trip, I don’t even really think I’ve ever had any kinda trip (except for ones involving rucksacks). But I defo feel like that’s how I feel – like my life is a trip, a dream, a surreal – so surreal – time that I keep expecting to wake up from.

And I know this isn’t a dream, and it hasn’t been a dream (at a lot of points I have definitely said it’s felt like a fucking nightmare) but I do feel as though I’m waking up, slowly. My eyes feel like they’re opening wider than they were before. They’re letting more of life in, and letting more of love out. And all the other shit too. I do feel like I’m waking from a dream, and where I’m finding myself is reality. And I’m getting a bit of a shock.

But I reckon this is probably a good thing. A really, really, healing thing. I just need to stop trying to drown out the feelings that I’m waking up to, too…

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Stubbornness

I loved this post below from the brilliant and beautiful Elizabeth Gilbert, on Facebook.

“STUBBORN.

Here’s what stubbornness means to me, you guys:

There are days when I wake up at 5am, and for some reason the madness is right there waiting for me, like it’s been sitting by the side of my bed all night. The disappointments, the anxiety, the regrets, the insecurity, the anger, the second-guessing — all of, waiting for me, with a greasy smile. Like: “Wake up, sucker! We can’t wait to mess with your mind and give you a horrible day!”

Mornings like that happen to me more than you might ever guess.

Then there are the weeks and months when I feel like I can’t love any of the people I’m supposed to love — including myself.

I fall into spells of living where I can’t seem to take a correct step or a wise action. I’ve been depressed, anxious, confused and deeply ashamed of myself — often enduringly, often all the same time. More recently than you might imagine.

Follow any of that stuff to its natural destination, and one will find life to be bleak and sorrowful, indeed.

But you know what? I’m fucking STUBBORN, people. I will fight that shit. I insist on pursuing enjoyment and meaning in the life that I have been given — even when some of the times I feel half crazy and totally uncertain. I fight for the light. You give me a crack of light the width of my pinkie, I’m going to try to squeeze myself through it, if it kills me. I will find something good around me, I swear to God, and I will hunt it down eat it — sometimes literally (pizza). I will make myself go out in the world and look at something beautiful. I will demand that I find a way that day to commit an act of kindness on someone. I will insist on trying to create. I will not be ashamed to call up my old therapist and be like, “Listen, I need a tune-up here,” and ask her to try to help me put my head on straight, rather than spinning in a vacuum of uncertainty. I will spend hours trying to find a goddamn inspirational quote that actually does its work on me. I will grab myself by my own hand and say, “Listen, kid — screw up as much as you want: I AM HERE TO LOVE YOU.” And I won’t let go.

You think those Happiness Jars that I talk about all the time are all about light and gladness and easy rays of sunshine? No — my Happiness Jar is a ninja weapon of stubborn defiance against the creep of despair. So is my relentless commitment to living a healthy creative life — a creative life that doesn’t worship darkness. So is this Facebook page. So is my stuttering, semi-effective meditation practice. So is my tithing. So is my traveling. So is my care and feeding of my own curiosity. So is my hunt for divinity. So is my daily attempt to wring some forgiveness out of my soul — for myself, for others. (And then to try again the next day, if it doesn’t work today.)

STUBBORN.

It’s a word that saves my life every day, and has given my life whatever worth it’s got.

So when it came time for Alma to review her own life, and to put her own dignity and worth in context…well. Ultimately, it all had to be about stubbornness.

Because without it? Nothing good will come.

Thanks for noticing, dear reader.

Go fight the fight today, you gorgeous warriors. Put your head up, put your fists up, push in hard…GO.”

Elizabeth Gilbert

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I’m a Taurean, and Taureans are infamously stubborn. Lately, as I watch myself journey along this healing process, I been increasingly grateful my stubbornness (even though it fucks me over sometimes). This morning – reading this – I realise that it is a gift. A gift that enables you to kick the shit out of our inner crazy…I think that’s how it helps me. I just naturally – without consciously trying to – refuse to, even the darkest of dark or the craziest of anxiety or the most desperate of desperate, feel it entirely. Like, feel it with all of me. There’s ALWAYS a part of me that’s like:

“NO MOTHERFUCKER! I WILL NOT BE YOU! I AM MY OWN PERSON. I WILL NOT HAVE YOU CONSUME MY ENTIRE BEING. FUCK YOU! I’m a sexy talented beautiful radiant sweetheart, and I deserve to SHINE!”

And I go outside or I do something or I call someone or I play something or I do something stupid or I eat something or I put music on really loud or I cuddle my toes in my hand and give myself a foot massage, even when the rest of me is hating what I find or what I hold… Because even if I can hardly feel the joy or comfort or reassurance or love that the action is bringing, I know that it is lighting a flame again. And even in those moments when I can’t feel the spark that sets this flame going, I know it is always there. By doing these things my body seems to just know how to do, and knows exactly when I need them, I’m giving that spark a voice…I’m letting it know, I’m listening. And in those moments, that’s the biggest gift I can give myself – to listen to my heart opening, and the love that ALWAYS sits there, and to resist the urge to cling onto the hate that’s flying around my system. In those moments, I realise my stubbornness is my spark.

Even when I overdosed, I listened to that spark – that spark was the one that saved my life. That’s the spark that made the call that brought me help. So, even in my darkest of days, my stubbornness and the spark is a bright old motherfucker and it stepped in to save me. And for that I am so grateful. For that, I thank my stubbornness.

If I can do that on that day, on the day I overdosed, I trust my stubbornness and my spark will do it – will be there – every other day of my life, too. And that’s something I am slowly learning I can trust and rely on. Something that offers Letting Go be an option.

Phew.

An Open Letter To The Lost.

Beautiful, but heartbreaking, piece. Needed these words tonight to remind me of the human experience.

You've Been Hooked!

This is for everyone out there who is currently hearing the whispers of desperation, the call of the void reaching out to them, even in the places we hide.

My name is Robert and I have something to say. I live in Niagara Falls, Ontario, Canada, a place of great natural beauty surrounded by the trappings of humanity. (Yes, parts of Niagara are ridiculously tacky, but on the plus side, Rob Ford isn’t our mayor and we’re not bankrupt like Detroit.) Every day we welcome strangers to our home; everyone is greeted with a smile and the hand of friendship. We never turn anyone away and regardless of how these strangers feel when they leave, one thing is certain: No one is unaffected by the unimaginable power of the Falls themselves.

The rushing waters are a symbol of purity and power and as they fall to the earth below they…

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The one time philosophy

Yesterday during a session with my therapist, the therapist that was there when I attempted, we touched on the beauty and the philosophy of my – and a – suicide attempt. It was towards the end of my session and it was only brief, but that five minutes felt like it was one of the nuggets of conversation that will change my life. I’m having a lot of that at the moment.

But the thing that blew me away was the idea that it was a one time thing, it was an event that won’t happen again. I know I’ve said this before, and I even typed it yesterday but the conversation still only just feels like its seeping in, and it very much feels like the beginning of it. It was, and is, the idea that it happened as a culmination of all that I was holding through my childhood, teenage years and early adult years until that point. That concept just blows my mind, and yet I know it is true. Like, the idea that it was something that perhaps was going to happen some day and I managed to create an environment and care for myself whilst all the shit surfaced, in the ‘run up’ to it…by seeking a therapist, creating a nugget of family out there where I was, establishing some form of security and stability even though I was living abroad. My innate ability to survive, and thrive whatever my circumstances, was in tact.

My therapist has often said, what would’ve have happened had she not been there? What would have happened if it hadn’t have happened then? Just the idea makes me feel sick because I think a part of me knows that it probably, or perhaps definitely, would’ve happened whether I had been in the position I was in or not.

The rebel in me wants to yell and scream and say that’s not possible, that’s not true, that’s a load of bollocks – it wouldn’t have happened. It was someone’s fault. It was either her fault or mine. It can’t just be life. That theory fucking sucks. I don’t have anyone to yell and scream at that way. Bollocks .

But the inner healer in me knows that this is true, and that it was ‘just’ life. And, she also knows that this rage and anger and fire from my inner teen is here to be heard and healed, and to fire me through this healing process. It’s just it sometimes gives me indigestion or a headache too.

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The hypervigilance that follows an attempt

How can you trust decisions and the path you’re headed down, when you didn’t notice that an overdose was gonna happen? How did i not catch myself before it did? How can i know that where i’m taking myself isn’t back down that route? How can I trust that

I have all these wonderings, worries and questions, but inside I also have this new faith…this new part of me that really knows and has a vision of me continuing to come out of the ashes, into the fire and then out the other side. I feel like the overdose was my ashes of the life I knew before. Due to the nature of doing something like that, I woke up to a fire – a fire of trauma, a fire of physical and emotional love. But also a fire of love. And i that the latter was definitely a fire I needed to experience – to be in.

Within these fires – the anxiety and the processing – that continue to spread like wild things, or simply just ignite and then stay here, slowly burning – the destruction and the healing seemingly unseen – it’s hard to keep perspective, keep it real, and see what’s really happening. But the more I find what brings me the water I so desperately need, to cool and to calm the fire inside and around, I see that I’m just on a motherfucking massive journey and I am healing. It often might not look like it, but when I open my eyes to see – when I’ve found my water and swum in it – the clarity that it brings is huge.

All the story and the tell-tales of my critic, aren’t true. They’re fear and they’re warning me of potential danger, but they’re not true. And they’re not valid anymore. They’re just here to be healed, or here to go unseen. To be left within and beneath the fire, to flail around and go unmet so I can continue to find the strength that I know I have inside – away from the stories and the lies my mind so easily gives itself.

In my heart I know the truth, and in my heart I see my future…my mind just is healing scars, and it causes me to believe them as truth and something that is real and will be here forever. Within my heart, I also know…this is just the definition of ptsd…it’s hypervigilance, it’s fear, it’s anxiety, it’s trauma. It’s not me.

That’s when I know I’m safe. That’s when I know it won’t happen again.

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It wasn’t for me.

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Right now, I’m writing a piece about my overdose with the hope to get it published and seen. As I write it, I’ve been swinging between concise, conscious writing, and just allowing myself to free-write all over the page, because I can’t seem to stop myself. It’s a bit fucking annoying, but I also feel like it’s part of the process. Talking with a friend last night she said to just let it happen – let the words spill out if they need to. This Is Writing. I realise that hours and hours can so often go into writing just one thing, but I just want it to be concise and easier! I just want to have my words all neatly packed in paragraphs so I don’t have to fucking sort through them afterwards to edit and filter what I want.

But I think I realise this isn’t me, nor will it ever be me. I’m not entirely sure why I thought it would be any different this time round. When I think back to uni, and any other piece I’ve written, I’ve exploded thousands of words onto the page and only used half of them, or less. Part of me does neat and tidy, concise and ‘together’, but the other parts of me Do. Not. And that’s creativity.

Anyway, as I was writing just a moment ago, I was in a phase of spilling the words out onto the screen – them hitting the blank page before I realise what they say – and I found myself writing this:

“It’s a place that I think I needed to visit to know it wasn’t for me. I think it’s a place I needed to visit to know it wasn’t for me.”

I had to write it twice because it blew my mind. I was referring to my overdose, and I was referring to that time in my life. I spend so much in time in total fear and terror that it’s going to happen again. Not because I want it, but because it’s trauma. And trauma can make you feel deluded to the truth, and make you feel terrified that it’s going to happen again. It’s not a case of rationality or reason, it’s a case of terror and a lack of sense of freedom. So when I wrote that just now, it almost made me cry. Instead I found myself sat with a gaping mouth at the screen… maybe this is really true. Maybe it won’t happen again, maybe it was somewhere I needed to go to know that it wasn’t me.

To know that time in my life was perhaps a place I needed to go to find the deepest, darkest medicine that I could ever get. To know suicide is not for me. To know that following the path of my mother wasn’t, and isn’t, for me either. To know that I am who I am today because of what happened, and everything else too. To know that my fear of it happening again, is just a fear. It really was just a stage, a time, a chapter, a nugget of sea salt in this entire ocean of my life blows me away. But I think  I really knew that. I think I always have. I think I’ve always known that I won’t go back there again, but  the fear of really giving myself that feels greater than living with the fear and the hypervigilance that it might…because that’s known ground – the confidence is wayyyyy foreign territory.

As I heal though, and as I type this, I find myself frowning at the screen…do I really feel that? I really do… and that shows me I’m healing because these norms and these levels of thinking or ways I’ve believed I need to live in, aren’t truth anymore. I’m discovering newer and healthier ways of being that are relevant and are real. Like living with trust – for myself and for my life, and for the universe around me.

That’s nice. I’m off to eat some food and – temporarily – drag me out of this writing stuper I’m in. It’s not a bad one, but sometimes I feel like I realise things that literally blow my mind out of my room and into next door’s garden…I think that just happened with what I wrote about, so I best go find it and celebrate.

Love.

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Shame…sod off

The last week I’ve noticed a whole new depth of shame. Shame around my suicide attempt. Shame around other stuff too, but that’s a whole other post. What. A. Freakin’. Week.

I think I’ve been aware of this for a while – maybe like this whole year and a half! – but I feel like this shame is here at the surface to be healed. After doing something like attempting to take your own life, shame feels like an obvious symptom to follow after. It is a symptom because of how it fucks your body up when you’re feeling it. I’ve noticed how it’s literally like a drug. It’s like a poison. A rotten apple that’s been planted in your system and from it, lots of maggots crawl out and squirm and cause havoc with your belief systems, a sense of worthiness and a sense of self. And they don’t stop until you tell them to fuck the hell off by sharing the shame with someone else. Just yelling at them, face on, don’t seem to work. I just end up stressed and in turmoil and more pain, and they continue to rummage around, eating away any form of self love, respect or feeling of deserving anything good or loving. Fucking maggots.

Anyways, so this shame I’m talking about is pretty fucking huge. And I think until now I haven’t needed to face it. I have a bit, obviously, but only in bite sized pieces. I’ve been able to avoid and dance around the big chunk of it, and let the maggots do their thing. (This metaphor is really quite gross but I’m quite enjoying it as I feel like it suits it quite well, so enjoy the maggot talk folks.) I’ve almost let them be there because they have been just as all encompassing as they are now, but they weren’t my focus on working through things. I had other maggots as my priority.

But now I’m noticing how deeply this shame runs – how deeply it’s gone. Or maybe I’m just getting a deeper insight, as my heart continues to open. It’s the shame of the fact I attempted. It’s the beliefs that have formed from this…this simple yet life changing act. The theories my inner critic has created, of all the things I now don’t deserve (according to him) and all the reasons I shouldn’t be here some more (according to him). I particularly noticed this this week as I’ve had a week from hell. A mind trippy low dark, deeply dark, week due to a reaction with a herb that brought up a tonne of grief that I couldn’t handle.

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During the whole time though, I watched as the impact of my overdose flooded me with shame and a sense of unworthiness. As I lay here swimming in a darkness I’ve never experienced before, I couldn’t properly reach out – partly because I literally couldn’t feel and barely fucking function, but also because within the shame I was flooded with, were beliefs that had been built from foundations of taking an overdose. And, lets be honest, foundations that were probably laid watching my mothers suicide attempts. That’s where my critic was born after all, so actually the judgement, hatred and critical words were born then. Not a year and a half ago – they were just turned towards me, when I attempted. Holy smokes that’s a beautiful thing to realise.

In this week of darkness, I realised that the difficulty of calling up a friend or meeting for coffee and truly owning up to the fact you’re feeling suicidal or desperate, or simply just depressed felt like such a mega task. In the past 18 months I just wouldn’t have said anything because the guilt of how much I needed friends during the time of my overdose and afterwards, still was running so strong. As was the fear of what me saying that, might bring up in them. But this time round, those two elements had faded. I think time really does heal. All those folks that say that are right. It just doesn’t feel as fresh anymore. And so this time round I could sit and openly say that I was really motherfucking struggling, and not care take. But instead, what lay beneath this new round ability to not care-take, was a river of beliefs that headed from my head to my heart and back again. The utter shame and sense of unworthiness because of what I did. A feel I don’t deserve support because of what I did. A sense that I don’t deserve deep connection and companionship because of what I did. And, most of all, that I don’t deserve regular support and love and company when I feel like this – I need to deal with it alone because anything else is too much. Too much for me, too much for the planet, and too much for the other person. It’s just too much to ask.

Or is it?

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Does the fact I attempted suicide mean I deserve any less than another person? No.

Does the fact I attempted suicide mean I deserve to go it alone, and need to go it alone? No

Does the fact I attempted suicide mean I shouldn’t tell anyone when I’m feeling deep in darkness and desperation or a sense of hopelessness? NO. It means I just need to pick those that feel safe and can hold it, and me.

Does the fact I attempted suicide suggest that I am totally doomed forever, red marked as a fuck up? A 2 out of 10, or an F? Err, NO.

And that goes for any of you out there too. I’m not sure how this shame truly heals, except I have a feeling it’s time and connection. And sharing. And, words from myself to the wounded part of me, and a middle finger to the critic, reminding myself I do deserve it and I do deserve love, despite whatever I’ve done or did or do. I deserve the unconditional kind. The kind I never got.

Until now – from me and those I love around me.

One continuing choice, is the greatest gift to myself

Until now I think the excitement of this journey and the ‘getting to know myself’ path that I’m on, has felt somewhat out of my hands as to whether I have a choice about it. In my eyes I didn’t. I was teetering towards the floor, I spent a whole summer swimming in serious suicidal ideation, I desperately grasped to therapy that winter and then in the springtime I overdosed. In my eyes this meant I had no choice but to unravel this stuff, heal this stuff, discover the hidden bubble-protected stuff, heal myself, give myself all the attention, devotion and love I have, and learn ways to find a shed load more of these three things, in unconditional supplies, that I didn’t know was there. This felt necessary for survival, it wasn’t just because I ‘felt like it’. My entire life was there before my eyes, blinding in a way that I didn’t think I could have looked anywhere else. But I could have. I could have stared vodka in the face every day and started my waking moments with a shot. I could have snorted crack til it came outta my eyeballs and numbed the pain. I could have done what a lotta people do. Okay maybe not the crack, but definitely the alcohol. I could have taken up the two last self destructive coping methods that I had never tried. But I didn’t. They were never an option for me or a decision that I needed to make, in my eyes, but I still did. I chose not to, no matter how subconscious this decision was.

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The last six months a friend has often said to me that I have a choice and I made a choice and am constantly making that choice – the choice to follow this healing path. I have always looked at him as though that’s a load of total bollocks. I’m not. ‘I have no choice, you don’t know shit’, I have desperately want to reply, because the thought that I have CHOSEN this path just makes me want to vom. It makes me want to curl up with embarrassment at the thought that I decided to do this. I decided to put myself through hell when things felt shit enough.

But gradually something inside me has shifted and I am realising that this choice is the biggest gift I can give myself. Like, it’s the ultimate act of self love – to heal. And it’s mega exciting too. I’m getting to know ME! It hasn’t really clicked until today, but this is self discovery that I’m doing. That is fucking cool.

After realising this, the enthusiasm that has been there beneath this all, can blossom and shine even more. Until now I’ve struggled to not just feel demoralised by what I’m doing, and weirded out by how I have enthusiasm for it. I shouldn’t, should I? How lame is that. I’ve felt battered down at how relentless this healing game is. Resentment and a hatred has burned so strongly through the clouds of self care and self love, leaving me sunburnt in a way that turns pink instead of a beautiful bronzed brown.

But I think it’s because I’ve been seeing this time as healing. Just healing. Don’t get me wrong, this has also filled my heart with such warmth that tears flow and flow when I finally realise I’m getting the chance to heal. Something I’ve needed for about 23 years. (I’m only 26). But maybe I’m not just healing. Today I realised that I have been seeing this time as so focused on what’s happened in the past, that’s led me to this point. To be fair, that is totally legit because in that IS what’s led me here. But now I want to see this journey as also as self discovery too – getting to know myself inside out, regardless of the past stuff. The past is just an added gazillion layer to sort through amongst this journey. I feel battered and bruised and torn when I just see it as overcoming my past and healing my past. Not to mention the “UNFAIRNESS” that rips me at the seams. But I’m healing my self, my whole Self now. And the parts within that are wounded from the past. The actual past can go fuck itself. I’m healing what’s here now because what’s here now sure is wounding from the past, but it isn’t actually the past. The past is done for. I’m left with my beautiful, battered, knackered, wise and wounded, beautiful self.

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This might sound obvious but I’m getting to know myself. I’m doing what all those wise owls do. I have struggled to see why on earth I would spend all this focus on, and time with, myself when it’s just me. Plain old me. Why can’t someone else get to know me so well and I get to know them in return? Deal?

But I’m doing this for me, I’m not doing it for anyone else. And so noone else can do it for me. I’m so shiney and brilliant that right now I don’t want to share myself with anyone else. I want to dive deeper into me and keep on discovering all this territory that’s never been found. I want to walk bare foot on shores that have only ever been kicked up in a frenzy from some trauma before. I want to put on my stilettos (I need to buy a pair first) and strut through the corridors of my inner self, owning it all. I also wanna kick the fuck outta the shitty dark corners and put a bouncy castle there instead, but I don’t know if can afford one of those. Bouncy castles are costly.

Everything I’ve done before now has been for someone else – as a child, as a teen, as a young adult – but now this journey is my own. From day one I was born into responsibility and now, as of a year or so ago, I made the decision to have all this responsibility for just myself. My rucksack of responsibility is just mine. I kicked out the items that weren’t anymore (MY MOTHER). The weight of this rucksack is mine to get to know, sort through, sift through, buy better straps for, and gradually learn a better posture by which to carry it. And I’m getting there. But first I still seem to have a fuck load of sifting. I could just hand it over to the Goodwill stores here and get drunk and snort crack but I don’t think I want to, no matter how painful this sifting and posture learning is. It’s my sifting to do and it’s my posture to learn, just for me. For no one else. Anyone else I get to share this whole-of-me with, well…that’s just a bonus.

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This journey of discovery is where I am grateful for my sense of fun and humour. I have been this entire year. All the drawing of cartoons, all the mindful and playful walks in nature, all the journalling and excitement about the revelations I have and realisations I’ve put together…but I realise, I don’t think I had really set my ‘intention’ until now. Like, inside I know I’ve been healing but its mostly felt like surviving. The last few weeks I’ve noticed a big old shift happen with this and I really KNOW that I am healing. In every way. It’s like my body knows it, my mind knows it, my soul knows it, and my heart knows it. And so because of this knowledge I can allow for it more and give myself the time and the trust. This in itself is a mega hit of mega dope beauty for me. And now, as of today, and probably as of this healing revelation/shift too, I now can see this time as exciting and a right of passage and a beautiful brilliant project I’ve decided to give myself. It’s like the ultimate home work, except the only test I get is the one I constantly give myself. Thank fuck because I hate normal tests.

I have always looked at people in awe when they just so clearly are on their path of self discovery and so dedicatedly and enthusiastically doing so. They’re the cool kids in my eyes. And I realise that, if I just set that as my intention (which it so blatantly has been this entire time, I just didn’t realise it), I can let myself feel like one of the cool kids too. Because I am. And so are you.

My song of belonging

There are thousands and thousands of research studies about how a sense of belonging is one of the key elements to health. Nature is where my sense of belonging blossoms, grows and is nurtured and feels like the healthiest relationship I have. I give, I get given a shed load back. I feel protective and I feel protected. I listen and I always feel heard.

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Scanning over an article just now – I never read these kinda things as it is just too triggering, so I literally scan over the pictures and get the gist – about how suicide has become an epidemic. I was absolutely shocked to see their chart showing how self-harm was the leading cause of death in the developing world in 2010. I think I had heard this statistic loosely before, but there was something about seeing it in an actual list…sitting there above natural causes. It broke my heart. And it made the anger in me boil, that this is even the case. The rage felt blinding and the protection oozed out and I just want to stop it all. One day I’ll work with this and with people knee deep in suicidality, but definitely not yet. My attempt, and all those of my mother, are way way too fresh. But one day.

In another little picture in the article, it shows the three leading elements that contribute to the desire of suicide, and right there is: ‘thwarted belongingness’. For me that has been and was definitely a leading factor in my feeling of desperation in the years before now. But now it has changed, and I definitely think nature has been the crucial instrument in helping this song of belonging develop begin to play in my heart. It makes me teary to realise this, and also makes me realise how much I’ve grown.

Mindful, playful and heartfelt connection with the earth has meant this song has continued to play over the year. Somedays louder than others, and somedays it feels like it’s gone quiet but the difference is that even on these deeply lonely quiet days, there is a murmur of song gently playing in the background that was never there before. It was either all or nothing before. I felt loved or I felt loathed. I felt supported or I felt painfully isolated. I felt as though I belonged, or I felt as though my feet had no place on this earth where they felt truly held.

Just like anything, it took practise to get this song playing…this alien thing I didn’t know how to do I can now do with my eyes closed. The way I can get my being to truly feel held, the way I can open my heart up to the natural world around me and let the support in, the way I can ground myself and allow myself to feel a sense of purpose in simply just being on the earth – nothing else – is just bloody beautiful. And is something that gives me faith for whatever road lies ahead, because this is a song I know will never fade out.

That last image was borrowed – i just loved it. Link attached.