My Depression Now

My depression hasn't left. I haven't dealt with the unmet needs and feelings buried beneath. I thought going back to school would fix it. I thought finding my purpose would heal me. I thought paying my way through school would validate me. I have not healed this. How have I still not healed this?

Depression has crept up on me again, like that unwelcomed guest in a shambled house. I'm nine months in to my massage therapy program and my body and spirit are spent. I am tired, weary down to the brittle bone. My tiredness in spirit has been ignored for far too long. Though my body has longed for rest, I have not stopped moving. Me, always moving, forward and backward but never still.

I have felt the fires of anger in my soul burn up to the surface. Anger for unmet needs of mine and forced responsibility. My heart feels like a stranger to joy. Its cries of pain show me again that I am in pain. I am in pain when I don't give myself time or space. To be in survival mode for extended periods of time has depleted me of my resources.

My anger feels unsure of where to land in my neuroses. So, it deepens and depresses itself into my body. I smoke, I eat, I distract. "Anywhere, but here," I scream into each cell of my body. My cells respond in lack of safety and certainty. My body is not my home. I have not felt at home in my body for years.

Growing up, emotions were scary creatures. Today, I find myself still running in circles away but never far enough to escape them. I wish my emotions weren't like the tsunami waves in the ocean. I numb and distract until reality is on my front door step again with its dose of darkness and shame.

So, I smoke. Today, I smoke because anxiety is more friend of mine than sadness and grief. The sadness feels too unbearable to speak of, let alone feel most days.

I am sad, torn apart by the pain I've endured. The pain of breaking my own heart over and over, neglecting myself over and over. I have not held this pain in my arms, cradling it like a wounded child. I have scolded, reprimanded and coerced this hurt child into a body I can't even call my home. She is in the darkest corner of my heart, waiting to be held. I see her now. She is my depression. She is my anger. She is my sadness.

"I am so sorry. I am so sorry I keep doing this. I don't know how to love you. I don't know how to care for you with love and adoration."

No, my depression has not left. I am still here dealing with it and finding my way up to the surface again. I am breaching it. I can feel it. I am breathing.

Healing

Two episodes in one week. The truth of that reality stings. And burns, As I wipe away the remnants Of the chocolate and sugar-induced coma. I am a recovering bulimic and anorexic. And no I am not cured. My eating disorder has shape shifted a multitude of times, But it has not vanished. I am healing. I am still healing. It has been nearly eight years. I am 25. The second wave of disorder. The first when I was 12. Alone, Scared, And afraid. Always, Afraid. My wounds have not healed yet. How have they not healed yet? I feel myself slipping Through the cracks. My life is so tightly wound up. My body is in knots. I feel restricted. I can’t breathe. Only think, Always thinking. My outer life mirrors my rigid attempts to control And restrict life coming at me. I’ve always felt life coming at me, Like daggers into my exposed heart. My heart feels exposed, Open. A flesh wound that is ripe and ready. For desolation. Or transformation. I am not sure which, Maybe both. I want to fucking scream, To put words and sounds to this Fucking anxiety. Fucking Anxiety. This fear.. I hate you God, I loathe your pervasive presence. You are so afraid, Always waiting for the next attack. Never wanting to fight back, You only run. I don’t want you here. You, young, naïve child. I don’t have time for you. No, I don’t have time. Not for your terror, No, Not for your overwhelming Fear And Sadness, Anger, Or pain. You are weak. You are what’s wrong With me. These are the words I use against myself. Time after misguided Bullet. How do we use our words against ourselves? Against each other? Words of criticism, Hatred Condemnation, Violence, Judgment, Fear, And bigotry? These words are our shadows. My wounds, These wounds, Of all of us. We have not healed. We are still healing. Time is healing. The shadow is coming into the light, For healing. My shadow desperately hungers For healing, Though it may resist, And kick and scream. No, I am not fixed. We are not fixed. Because perhaps our brokenness Is the fix. Can we all face our brokenness? And turn toward it with words Of love? I am not sure. My own words feel so heavy. I see my choices In perception And darkness prevails. Maybe the power has been given To the darkness, To those voices of fear and hate. The violence is here, On our front doorsteps, In thoughts, words and actions. Inner And outer. It is time to rise Above the hateful words In all of us. Not outside of me, Or you. But inside. We may not choose who leads us Externally, But we can choose The power within. This is power True and absolute. Not power over, But power in, Each of us, The power to wield Love out of fear, Union out of division, Light out of dark. Hope is not lost, If we are still breathing. I am still breathing. We are all still breathing. No, Hope is not lost. No matter the setbacks. Each day is given, To choose again. Love. Healing. This is power. To rise above the old, By embracing the shadow. And to bless the past, With forgiveness. We are healing, You are healing. I am healing. Always. Again. And again.

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.