Stitching Pieces

I have been protecting myself from pain

And love

For years now.

My armor has many layers

And facets.

The outer is the toughest

And most perplexing.

My sweetness and shyness

The layer I use

To ward off offenders.

Never getting too close,

No,

Not

Too

Close.

It’s a shield I wear to keep

Out those I hold closest.

And those I fear to let in.

It’s taken many forms,

An eating disorder,

Of many varieties,

And methods.

Anxiety,

Depression,

Exercise compulsion,

Marijuana fog,

Controlling

Tendencies.

It’s an inner panic,

And distrust in the person

Beaneath the layers.

A permeating fear

Of not belonging,

Being loved and

Supported.

My body never felt safe enough

To relax

Into

The space I

Didn’t allow.

Its exterior became the

Architecture to enclose

My heart,

Withholding love,

From myself

And other.

I have been running

For many years now,

My shoes laced and ready.

Running was never an option,

Just a default.

But my steps grow wearier

Each day.

I am tired.

My body is spent.

My spirit longs,

For rest.

Nourishing

Rest.

I’m not sure how many layers

There are.

I’m not even certain on

Where they begin.

These parts of me

Only wanted to protect me,

To this day,

They only want to protect me,

To keep me safe.

They think they are,

Keeping me safe.

But, I want them to know

Now

They’re hurting me,

They’ve been hurting me,

Unintentionally.

“I’m so sorry,”

They whisper.

“I’m

So

Sorry,”

I say.

“Please

Forgive

Me,”

We both

Whisper.

It’s a long awaited dialogue,

Between these pieces,

Of polarization

Inside me.

All I’ve ever wanted was

To feel whole.

Complete.

They too want that

Now,

I see.

They see

My tear stained cheeks.

How badly

My tears ache to pour

Like a river of regrets,

Grief.

Years of hidden pain,

Has been coming to

The surface,

Spilling out

In doses.

Maybe the grieving never ends.

Maybe,

Life is a grieving.

All the losses,

The deaths,

Real and minut.

I’m still grieving.

I’m still stitching,

The tattered pieces,

Back

Together

Now.

“Thank you,”

I whisper humbly.

“I love you,” I say,

Trembling slightly,

At the depth of feeling

This

Truth.

“I love you,”

They warmly, sweetly,

Like honey dripping into

And around my heart,

Say.

This.

This is the love

I’ve craved

All

My

Life.

My heart is mending.

Piece by broken piece.

Stitching,

Back the pieces

I’ve exiled.

“Welcome home,” I say.

Silence and warmth

Meets me

In the spaces

I’ve been trying to fill.

This

Is

Wholeness.

That

Is

Wholeness.

I am safe.

I

Am

Safe.

All

Is

Lost

Is

Found

Again.

I Am Enough

I want to tell you a thousand times over,
How enough you are.
How utterly and completely whole
You are.

Just
As
You
Are.

I know the lies you've told yourself.
The stories you've rehearsed,
Over in your head,
For they are my own.

Some say we lost ourselves long ago,
The emptiness became
The void to fill.
Never enough
To fill the hole
In our wholeness.

Maybe they were right,
The mystics and light seekers.
They knew the truth
Of who we are.
Who you are.
Who I am.

The truth of being enough
Now and always,
And all ways.
As we are.
As you are.
As I am.

I know it hurts
To uncover the lies
We've believed.
To peel away the layers
Of falsehood.

But freedom awaits.
Its beckoning call grows
Stronger.

Will we heed its call?
Can we rise above the old?
Rise above the fear?
And become who we are?

I want to tell you
I feel it too.
The fear,
The doubt,
The hopelessness,
And weariness.

Maybe there's another way,
In,
Not out.

Yes, into the darkness.
To see that black
Is a color too,
And a shade
Of all the colors we're made.

Not one brighter than the other.
Just enough,
As
You
Are.

I want you to know I'm trying too
To change the stories.
Convincing they are,
I know the ending.

Its time to rewrite the story,
Or maybe return to
The original one
Of who we are.
Who we've been.
All ways.

You are holy,
Beloved,
Sacred,
And profound.

This is the truth.
You are enough.
I am enough.

You
Are
Enough.

I
Am
Enough.

Interlude

As I begin to collect my wandering thoughts, I'm sitting here reflecting on this past year. It's been a mixture of ups, downs, turnarounds, pitfalls, drawn out periods of stagnation, confusion as well as growth, learning and forward movement. 

Some unforeseen changes came and went and then came back again. Some new beginnings and a few endings. I quit a fairly long-term job, started a job, left that job, started another job and began massage therapy school. 

The fear has never left. Nor, has the overwhelming feeling of not being good enough, in over my head, or unable to find solid ground. I haven't stopped running or fleeing in fear of my own shadow. I haven't done a lot of things. 

And yet, here I am nearing the end of this year, feeling as though I am not the same person that entered into 2016. Some dreams have withered. Others have been watered down. And, a few are growing, itching to break through the cold, dry earth. 

But, it is not time. 

Patience, they tell me. 

Patience with these hopes and dreams. Patience with all that has been and all that has yet to come. 

I am growing. 

Like a newly planted seed, my heart reaches toward the sunlight. 

But, the seed is not ready to break free. I am wondering when I will break free. Break free from the fear, anxiety, control, depression, darkness, and cages that have continuously kept me small. When the monotonous routine will finally break. When I may break. 

I have broke. Many times. This year and those preceding. I am not without my brokenness, my humanness. Though, I may wish to be free of it. To withdraw into some cloud of enlightenment and bliss. Yet, the further I propel into this, the further I fall right back down the hole, always reaching to be set free again. 

Accept. But I can't accept. It feels like efforting myself into submission. So, here I write of this year as though it is over. But, it is not. It's a prelude to what is to come. It's an acknowledgement of the growth and strength I have acquired. To myself. To you. To no one. 

It's an interlude.

Before the next act. And, how I yearn for the rawness beneath the act. And, fear it at the same time. Maybe, not having the words to speak to this moment is okay. Maybe, this moment is enough without needing to quantify, qualify or describe it. Maybe, I can just sit with the knowing that I have done enough. 

I can rest, for now. 

I can breathe, for now.

All will be well when I return.

For now,

I rest

And restore.

It is enough.

Keep Moving

Damn. That perfectionism almost had me again at the title, its stuttering, start/stop, but mostly stop response to my aching desire to write these words. 

It is not without hesitation, or fear, or doubt that I write this. I have not transcribed a written word of my own, truly my own in four months, four achingly long, brutal, beautiful, harsh, confusing months.

The only words written from pen to paper have been notes scribbled in my notebook from the grueling hours of yoga therapy training the past 8 months...wow that took some thought tracking how long of a process this current undertaking has been. 

It's that annoying pause in my brain, that itch to scratch, to recalculate or reassess something, an innovative yet painstakingly ritualistic method to distract my mind from the here and now.

It's irritatingly familiar the anxiety and obsessive tendencies that set in almost instantaneously, begging me to retreat into their distractive allure. I'm not sure if I'm making myself clear. In fact, I probably am downright confusing. 

But, this is my mind, right now, post-research paper writing for my yoga therapy program. I was writing a paper about yoga therapy and its effectiveness in addiction treatment, a topic near and dear to my heart, as I have personally struggled with food addictions, disordered eating, exercise addiction and other compulsive addictions. 

Yet again, the left part of my brain, thoroughly enjoyed stealing the show. Meanwhile, my creative, right brain, sat back yawning and twiddling her bedazzled thumbs. 

She wondered when she would finally be set free, free to wander, to roam, to galvanize my attention into something more captivating than the daily routine (side note: she is singing right now and laughing a joyous laugh at my feeble attempts in captivating her raw, expressive nature).

These parts of me are still not quite sure of the other: left and right, masculine and feminine, mind and body; sometimes, in a mere stroke of brilliance, clear thinking or inspiration, their paths cross. And, weirdly enough, they sometimes merge into coherent ideas, nothing like this blog post mind you. 

My left brain thrives on order, completion, perfection, symmetry, linear thinking, but also guilt. If it had its way, this blog post would have proceeded fairly directly to the point. 

But, what is the point? How can I summarize the past few months when the mere experiences can not be captured even in words of my own?

I suppose my life is continuing to unfold in weirdly, unimaginable, yet sometimes predictable ways. I am 25-years young and just when I think I know where things are going....Bam! And, no that wasn't a bus. 

Well, it depends on if we're speaking metaphorically or not. For the sake of this story, this bus has been another one of those inevitable changes in life, the endings and beginnings and all the weird, awkward transitionary moments in between.

At the end of July, I left my job working at a school with kids with special needs, feeling burnt out and ready for a change. I had felt the itch to leave for a few months prior, as well as a drastic stagnation in energy and forward growth. It was time to move on. 

As I transitioned from a steady, consistent schedule into a freer, lighter albeit confusing month-long period, I started working in ABA (Applied Behavior Analysis) Therapy in the home, until I landed my current job working at a learning center. 

These weird, awkward pauses between the next "big" move never seem to come any more graceful. Though I suppose the action part is key. 

Just keep moving forward, I reiterate to myself when I can so easily forget how to get where I think I'm going.

My next move is in a few weeks as I wrap up level one of yoga therapy training (yup, there are three levels). Needless to say, my focus is landing elsewhere at this point in time. My eyes and heart are set on massage therapy school, which I will start in nearly three weeks. 

I feel a deeper yearning in my heart to be a part of healing work and using my hands and my heart to support people in their bodies. I yearn for a quieter work environment more conducive to a slower rhythm. 

I deeply recognize the environments I have worked in the past three years have been wildly chaotic, at times traumatizing, harsh, loud, overstimulating and draining. My body yearns for a more nurturing and sustainable work space.

Faith and patience, I tell myself. I know I cannot predict how the tiny details will fall into place as I attempt to balance work, school, home life and a budding relationship. My energy can easily fall into the range of dispersed and fragmented, ungrounded and uncollected. 

When my energy is low, I know it is time to come home to myself and reground. As always, it is no easy choice when your energy is running low and emotions high, to choose the path of greatest love, health and long-term benefits. 

My mind still spins on its crazy wheel of I want what I want when I want it...NOW. 

And, sure sometimes it wins. Sometimes, the fight seems to much for my weakened system. Sometimes, that sweet treat and compulsion to numb is the wolf I feed. And, the next day, I am reminded in not so comfortable ways, why this wolf must be nourished in other more loving, self-nurturing ways. 

I am always doing the best that I can, I tell myself when my self-criticism and harsh judgment won't budge. 

We are all aways doing the best we can. And, that is more than enough in these turbulent times. To just keep moving forward is enough, no matter the destination. 

I may not have all of the answers, nor do I need to know them, but just to trust that one step in the right direction is always what I am called to do. 

So, for this evening, one step back toward creative expression, authentic and vulnerable sharing and sometimes a confusing ramble of past and current events, is enough. 

Just.....keep....moving.

Counting Steps

Sometimes,
My steps grow weary,
Run ragged of step taken,
Mis-taken steps.

Circling back,
Like a spiraling staircase,
Winding.
A cyclical pattern,
My mind replays.

It's a tape always playing,
On repeat.
Like that once favorite song,
Its rhythm now stale and dry.

Its notes toned sharp and cutting
To fine-tuned ears.
The same pattern,
The same nagging
Thoughts.
Around and around.

It's that repetitive noise,
In your head,
Like a monotonously dull,
Sometimes sharp tone,
Always cutting like a knife,
Piercing,
Prickling around the edges of clarity,
Murking the waters.

The grooves in my brain run deep,
Like the valleys,
Cutting through mountains,
Always cutting my mountain
Of strength
Down.

They cut and tear,
And shred.
Tainting beauty
With the grays and blacks,
Of its darkness.

Like pieces stripped,
They tear and claw
Persistently,
Patiently,
Tirelessly.

This is my inner darkness,
My subconscious thoughts,
Of insidious nature.
The thoughts I've hidden
From daylight.

For they shake,
In the wake,
Of light.
My light.

But, they keep surfacing.
Brought out in the light,
Of truth,
Bubbling over,
Rushing through
Layers of shame,
Protection.

Shame has hidden,
My light.
But, not today.
I keep shining,
Through walls of doubt,
Shame,
Guilt,
Anger,
Fear.

One light,
One step,
One turn,
But never back.

My steps are counting,
Counting steps,
Always counting.
Sometimes short,
Sometimes too much.

Today,
I step out
Into the light.

One step forward,
One giant leap...
Forward.

Like a Tree

Like a tree, I stand
Rooted and
Solid.
In the now,
Writing and
Weaving
My web
Of creation.

Roots ground me,
Like feet planted on the earth.
Two seeds grown into one.
These roots my own.

Tainted thoughts may shake
Leaves from my branches,
Bare.
But my roots sink,
Deeper each time.

I rise above,
The darkness,
Always reaching,
To the light,
Resting on the earth.

Planted in the soil of my soul,
Though my thoughts
Fluctuate and
Pulsate
Against the rhythm
Of my heart,
The heart of a tree.

Like leaves of the tree,
They float downstream
Of moments passing by.

My tree grows barren now.
Its bark stripped of beauty,
On the surface.
Pounded tooth and nail
Into its rings.

Shaved branch,
After branch,
To seek the heart.

The solidness beneath the bark,
The depth beneath the form.
The soul beneath the mask.

The bark grows tattered,
Each day,
And passing season.

But, the fruit is ripening,
As the seasons blossom,
Darkness succumbs to light.

The thoughts are lifting today,
Swimming further downstream.
And, I can breath again,
Steady and strong.

I stand, again.
As a tree.
Battered,
But not broken.
Shaken,
But not shattered.

I am mending.
My roots are mending
My new bark.

My soul is mending
Its structure back together again.
One branch at a time.
One new leaf at a time.
One breath at a time.

Like a tree,
I stand once more.

Closed Eyes

I see more light in the dark,
With both eyes closed,
And one eye open.

My world changes,
As darkness becomes
Clear-seeing.

Colors cast their rays
On my eyelids.
My vision clears,
With eyes closed.
An inward gaze.

I see clearer in the night.
The dark casts its shadow.
On my sky.

The unseen changes
To illuminate the dark.

I see the truth
With closed eyelids.
I remember the truth
I forgot
With eyes open,

I see nothing
And everything.

The darkness is my home,
When my eyes rest.
Light drawn.
Closed eyes.
Dark night.
Fallen skies.

Written Words

I want to write words to inspire,
Words to set the hearts a blaze.
To set a soul on fire.
My soul.

But I can't.

My words feel meek.
Stuck.
Stagnant.
Like my steps.

I don't know where I'm going.
One step, two step,
And three back.
I feel lost again.

I don't know where to dump
Empty words onto,
But these blank pages,
Unread.

I feel small.
Unseen.
So I keep hidden.
Hiding behind these masks.

One is for the athlete.
Perfect form.
Sweaty brow.
Straining muscles.
Shortening breath.

One is for the fear,
Of the world,
A mask of many forms,
Hiding in the darkness,
Of my room,
Closed eyes.
Asleep.

One is for depression,
Heavy.
Heart.
Hiding.
Heart.

Too many masks to count,
And I'm a counter,
Of numbers.

I feel burdened by my choices,
In moments of overwhelm,
And stress,
I choose the path,
Of least resistance.
To hide,
And numb.

An addict to non-feeling.
An addict to a drug,
Of many forms.

If I don't try,
How can I fail?
That is the question,
With only one answer.
Regret.

Regret over choices,
Avoided.
Responsibility,
Not taken.

Today,
I am standing,
But heaviness weighs,
Deep in my bones.

The stories I've told myself,
Don't hurt so badly.
Maybe I'm numb,
Maybe I'm de-sensitizing,
To the painful words and judgments,
In my head.

Experiences re-play,
Moments not taken,
Relationships forsaken.
My path is winding,
And binding.

I want to write for me,
Again.
Back when it all began.
Not when words were
Written with pressure,
Or strain.

So, I'm writing,
Hopeful that these words,
Will lessen the pain,
That creeps into my head,
And out my heart.

I'm writing to feel,
To re-member,
In my bones,
The truth beneath the masks,
The joy beneath,
The darkness.
The light within my reach.

In this breath.
I breath to remember.
I'm doing the best I can.

Spoken Word

A pen can only convey so many words,
A scratch,
A glimpse,
An echo of a feeling.

My pen halts before each mark,
Unsure of the words it has yet to speak.
Spoken word,
Unheard.

I hear the tap of the pen tip.
Tap, tap, tap.
A sound giving meaning to this art.

Expression.
To express the unsaid words.
Wording a particular order.
Order-less form.
Formless.
Seamless.

My words,
A window into the unseen.
The unsaid words.
Unspoken.

My pen cascades onto paper,
Effortless,
Past the fear,
Through the walls of shame.

I write to feel again.
To give meaning to the world,
Unseen.
Unless invited in,
You may not see.

My belly craves,
Longs for it.
A hunger.
A gnawing.

Confused for hunger outside of me.
I want more.
Interrupted thoughts.
Words unwritten.

A New Story

It's funny how these unwritten words conjure up so much fear in me. 

The fear of vulnerability, I suppose. 

I've been in hiding. 

Hibernation. But, not the cozy, restful, bear-kind. No, this hibernation has been marked by my own self-perpetuated darkness and attachment to negative patterns of thought and behavior.

Darkness has cast over the light inside, feeding on the fear in my own mind. 

I've been running. 

Numbing out from perceived discomfort. Using food, exercise, weed, T.V., social media and relationships, to distract from my own internal storm.

I've been running until I can't run any further, until my legs have grown weary, aching with grief. And, I collapse as grief floods over my body. 

I've been seeking. Seeking a feeling I cannot name. Escape. Freedom. Belonging. In circles, I have spun myself around and around, dizzy, high off the adrenaline in my own body. 

An addict to the chaos. Self-perpetuated chaos.

I'm not sure where to begin this story. As, it is just that, a story, a past occurrence in relation to where I am presently in this very moment. It is a story I have told countless times to myself, to my friends and to my family. 

A story of victimization. A story where I am the attacker and the victim. Attachment to both identities, with dissolution of self in between. It is a story where I have lost my center, lost my seat of power.

These past few months and then some, my neurotic mind has ruled the show, deciding which way to go and where to stay, stuck, stagnant. My mind has told me all the stories of fear, failure, terror and doom. 

And, based on this past story, it convinced me. To stay on this merry-go-round of fear. Distrust in self. In my own body. The anxiety has told me time and time again, that life would be too scary if I didn't have something to latch onto.

So, I re-attached myself to the eating disorder behaviors. They are behaviors still covered and dressed in shame in our society. Food: as prevalent and abundant as it is, is not something taken lightly. It has become a moral issue. So, when addiction comes to the table, all bets are off. Eating disorders are still very hush, hush these days. So, in light, of taking a stand on telling a new story, here's mine.

It's one thing to talk about as a "been there, done that" kind of a deal. It's a whole other reality to talk about when it's your present struggle. My eating disorder has taken on many shapes and forms. No matter, the root is still the same: distrust. Distrust in myself, in my own body. Distrust in my ability to feel and process emotions. Distrust in God, higher power, Spirit, Earth, what have you, to support me. Distrust in my worthiness to receive love.

I know I have allowed the fear to rule and dictate my body these past few months and then some. The fear has told me to restrict. That food is something to be feared. That my body is something to be controlled, micro-managed. That food is love I will never be worthy of, unless it is earned. That I cannot trust my own body or self, or even the solidness of Earth beneath my feet.

It's insidious nature crept back in and took its host hostage. I allowed it, due to fear and lack of faith in my own power. I gave the fear my power. Power to rule. To control. To dictate. And, to punish when I disobey or God forbid, make a mistake. 

I have taken the fear and judge outside of myself and internalized the voice. Who's to say where the fear or judge comes from? Maybe it's religion; maybe it's society. Maybe, it's childhood conditioning. But, we all have it. 

The story of unworthiness. The story of imperfection.

The feeling of victimization. Powerlessness. Hopelessness. I have been defeated, time and time again. Broken down. Each time, I've laid crumpled on the floor, lost in depression, lost in a feeling I cannot name, I've been stripped. 

Stripped of my own will power. My own egoic pride. Naked. Left to pick up the pieces I can't seem to put back straight anymore. I have been fighting a battle of epic proportions in my own mind.

Up until this day, I've been slowly, painfully losing sight of why I've been doing any of the crazy things I've been doing. The vigorous cardio workout regime at the gym, the restrictive diet. Rules on top of rules on top of rules. For what? The reward at the end of the day. The sweetness of the sugary, chocolate binge. And, the guilt that has taken me into the next day to begin the fucked up cycle again.

So, I'm making a choice. I'm taking action. And, not only thinking about taking action, as God knows how long I've been self-analyzing and psychoanalyzing the shit out of this whole thing. 

You could ask me all the questions and why's and I could give you the whole psychological schpeal. But, you can probably guess where that has gotten me. More knowledge to judge myself with to prove my unworthiness to even try to change. 

As a psychology major, I'm beginning to wonder where this knowledge has gotten me other than further down the rabbit hole of self-rejection. I guess they forgot to mention in those Psych100 classes that perfectionists should better off find a major with definitive answers.

All this to say, I'm making the change. I'm no longer going to wait for someone to do it for me. I may not feel ready, and that's okay.

I could keep going about my own sob story of where I've been the past few months. But, the truth is, it's not a pretty picture. And, sure, for the sake of vulnerability, I could go into all of the setbacks, trials, tribulations, and breakdowns. 

But, I'm tired. Tired of telling the same story over and over to myself, to you, to the world.

So, in the sake of celebrating my joys, today, I listened. I listened to my body. I asked it what it needed. And, it responded, excited but perhaps tentative. It told me its needs. I asked and it responded. Finding trust again in myself to recognize a need and respond accordingly with love, devotion and wisdom, is a new endeveaor 

I'm finally embarking on, for real this time. And, I'm embracing the mistakes and setbacks along the way. No more play it safe and suffering with self and body abuse. I know that story. 

It's time to tell a different one. A story marked by a little more self-care, rest, nourishment and acceptance. A story full of life, adventure and freedom. 

Where I am the hero of my own story. This story has yet to be told. And, until that day when this new story is told, I'm going to start living it.