Memories still hang on my wall and liquor sits on my wooden desk at the “office” studio currently occupied …
It’s not like I didn’t see this coming.
I’m trying to pinpoint what my current “status” is but the truth is, I’m just as lost as I was ten years ago, 22 and crying at the doorstep of my ex-boyfriend’s house where there was no “end” in sight of humiliation and inability to move along, sort of speak.
One of many “humiliations”.
All self-inflicted. Why do I do that? Some harm others, I harm myself. It’s a habit. When I was 12 years old I use to follow the in crowd and mimic what I thought was “cool”. Part of that was cutting. Burning your skin. At 12? Poor girl . . .
I broke off eventually but then followed real “people” around and copied their every stylish move and sound.
What is that?
Anyway, this past self is partly stored in my DNA but somehow, I just can’t fathom being that version of me. Yet somehow, I make similar mistakes. Maybe I’m not so different. Maybe I’m still the attention seeking hypervigilant phenom looking for some sort of fulfillment and recognition in this vastly over energized world. And maybe, its not “bad” at all.
It’s so easy to compare your life with others. Babies shooting out of thin air and houses in the suburbs looking like there’s too much space for a tiny human being, a dog and what I can only assume is 5 years’ worth of bed bath and beyond collectables.
We all see and think it. And feel the same. But we don’t talk. Only with our in groups. Why? Self-protection. Self-realization that the older we get, the more we get set in “our ways”. And as much as we’d like to think we are in control, we really aren’t. That’s the major human flaw. The “sin”, which literally means “missing the mark”. It’s not wrong or bad. It’s missing the mark. We live in sin because the older we get, the harder it is to stay true to simple laughter and love. We create these lives we think we want and by the time we realize what we’ve done, its too late. We have engrained our children to live the same and presto. Generational trauma.
We miss the mark. Of how this body we’ve been given is a vehicle to experiencing some of the most wonderful aspects of living. Connection. Transformation. Touch. Breathing each day new. And hugs. Hugs are the best medicine sometimes.
I guess being lost in this dimension is acceptable to a degree so long as I move along. That doorstep cry? Yea I got up and moved along. That burned skin in the palms of my hands, healed. The alcohol that passes through my veins does just that, passes through. After all this self-harm, I’m still alive. That’s all the proof I need to continue working towards purpose and joy. Knowing that others who I know probably deserve to be here more than me, are gone. . . knowing that you get to live and breathe one more day than someone else should be enough motivation to keep going.
It’s immense gratitude and determination to clean your act up. Focus on your personal goals. Be proud of being exactly where you are now. It will carry you through as it always does.