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.