Morning Meditation

The dog barks from somewhere outside,
High pitched shrill barks,
A small dog for certain, Perhaps a Maltese…
Clearly unhappy for being left,
Is this an irritation? Or an opportunity to become present?
The cooler which contains the 5-gallon jug of water,
Buzzes and rattles as it seeks to cool the water,
Smacking it will only cause it to reside briefly,
Is this an irritation? Or a reminder to return to the present moment?
The dog stops barking, the cooler ceases running,
Quiet. Lack of noise. Silence seems so profound,
Gratitude for the noise, causing the absence of it to bring great peace.

Sensing the body, how is it today?
Appreciating all the areas that don’t ache,
No tension headache,
The lower back is tolerable, the left knee feels great.
Enjoying a full breath.
The air is refreshing and cool as it flows through the nose,
Expanding the lungs in a fulfilling stretch,
Sitting deep inside this body.

Observing the mind as it tries to find problems,
After all, that is the job it has been given,
To find and fix problems.
The dog begins barking, bringing back the present.
Breathe. Set intentions for the day. Begin.

Depression

The woman resided to her comfortable space,
Secure within its walls of protection it provides,
Her energy depleted,
From the internal war she fights,
Often left feeling defeated.
She attends to her devoir as a worker, a student, a member within recovery,
Heavy is the feeling of everything,
Putting on deodorant takes all but her strength,
With great antipathy, she does the things she must to survive,
When she is out she does her best to be invisible,
Not daring to look up unless they see her insides,
When asked how she is doing,
I’m ok is the response she provides,
Emotional storms past,
As all storms do,
But this feeling of nothing,
Its passing is long overdue,
She refuses to call an armistice,
To roll over and let it possess her,
After all,
Tomorrow may be the day it gets better.

Words of the day:
Armistice: an agreement to stop fighting a war
Devoir: something for which a person is responsible; duty
Antipathy: A deep-seated feeling of dislike; aversion
Defeated: used to describe someone or something that has lost a contest or game..etc.

Why I Write…

I am a 36 introverted divorcee who lives alone with two dogs. I work from home. I go to school online. I have very few friends. Writing is what helps keep me sane. There are days where the only one who hears my words are my dogs and this screen as I type them. I post my words out into the digital universe, realizing that they potentially will never be read, but somehow the slight chance that they will, makes me feel less alone. Writing makes me feel heard.

Relationships are hard. I get triggered by people. I take meds to try to make me more balanced, practice mindfulness, go to therapy. I do all kinds of things, but in the end, being alone is just easier. It is less painful. I think of myself as a fairly funny person with a good amount of insight. That is the one good thing gained from a ton of isolation, you become extremely insightful. I’ve begun to accept that my life, for the most part, will be an alone journey. An extremely insightful one, and from this I will do my best to make lemonade from lemons. I will continue to try to find purpose. To be a better person than who I was yesterday. To enjoy each moment for what it is with comfort in knowing that this is the path that was handed me. A path that has many positive aspects. We all have positive and negative aspects of ourselves and our lives. The discontent is found when looking at those around you and comparing.

Writing to me is release. It is like taking the steam kettle which is screaming like no one’s business and removing the heat. It is taking the 2-liter of soda which I just dropped and accidentally kicked across the kitchen and slowly loosening the cap. It is the feeling of taking your shoes and bra off after a long day. For those that drink, it is the feeling after your first drink. I can turn to it when overcome with emotions, good or bad and I can write until those feelings become more manageable. Neither emotion in their extreme form is bearable to me. When I write I am not judged or critiqued, at least not during the actual act of writing.  While writing I do not feel anxious that someone is tired of hearing me talk. That I might be, being selfish by only expressing my thoughts. To write for the sake of writing, with no intended audience, there are no rules. No limits. No restraints. True freedom of expression.

When I write, there are times when I feel tapped into something almost supernatural. I can physically feel my heart peeling open and some sort of energy, flowing out or in, or both. The words, that flow, almost don’t seem like mine. I feel apart of something much greater than myself. Other times when I write, I am very aware that it is just me. That is ok too.

When I sit down to my computer, there is a sense of excitement, because I rarely know what words will end up coming out. Sometimes I am quite pleased and other times, I think, what rubbish. Regardless of what I think, how I feel is always better.

There are days and times, when I will be out doing something and I am struck with this overwhelming need to write. It is almost like the writing fairies tapped me on the shoulder and whispered sweet nothings in my ear. I can’t wait to get back home to write and I just pray that the inspiration doesn’t leave before I get there.

Writing is my companion. My dearest friend. It listens, it accepts, it is always there whenever I need it. Writing is a dream, a vision unexplored, new territory just waiting to be discovered. It is a sad monologue in times of grief, an angry rant about the unjust world, a sappy poem from a love-struck heart.

I am never sad when the words stop. I expressed what was needed. It is similar to the last bit of toothpaste being squeezed from the tube. Being drained but in a good way, like the relief when after the second flush everything goes down. I know the words will return. They will ask to be shared and when they do I will be here, ready and waiting.

Compassion?

Where do you find compassion?
Where does it hide?
Why do I have so little?
Why am I so mean to me inside?
Others recommend, treat yourself as you would a friend,
Unfortunately, I am also hard on them.
If I have no understanding of my own mistakes,
How can I have any for yours?
How do I cross this ocean of self-damnation to forgiving shores?

It’s hard to see a future when things will be different…when I will be different,
When you’re in your emotions things feel like they will always be the same,
Looking back I know, that statistically, this isn’t true,
As long as I keep seeking change,
My circumstances will change and I will too.

Someone said recently, that what kept him going was the thought,
That what if tomorrow is the day when things will get better?
Castaway said it best, “So now I know what I have to do. I have to keep breathing. And tomorrow the sun will rise, and who knows what the tide will bring in.”

Vulnerability

I unbutton my shirt and open the window,
Revealing the dirty parts of my heart.
With my words I display my flaws,
Forming a mirror in which is a reflection of you.
Courage departs to doubt,
Did you hear me? What do you see?
Old wounds lying bare, scabbed partially bleeding,
Each disclosure rubbing them ever so slightly.
Am I being helpful or seeking acceptance?
Does it aid in my healing or delay it?
Painful to be seen, but even more so to carry this alone.
Relate and not compare.
Connection only through the removal of masks.
I will continue to expose myself to you,
Will you get naked with me?

Future Me

This heavy sheath,
Draped around my shoulders,
Pressing against the curves on my hips,
Pulling on the skin beneath my arms,
Tugging on my second chin,
Hate oozing out from within.

Unable to perfect my goals,
Self-discipline steps out for a meal,
Dictating how I feel,
Not giving up,
But not getting there.
As my fat disappears, so will my isolation,
Acceptance and love, always just another 10 pounds away.
Unable to be seen, until I am worthy to be seen.

Cognitive dissonance puts the monster in hibernation for awhile,
Psychologically incapable of holding it for long,
But it returns,
It awakens,
Like walking out of a dark theater,
Disorienting.
Painfully blinding.

Digging in my heals,
Trying to stay in today,
Drifting,
Impatient for the future me,
You’d like her.

Abusive Relationship With My Mind

I’d been enmeshed in a co-dependent mess,
It was like I didn’t even exist,
We were a dysfunctional whole,
Wherever I went, there you were,
Until a small insignificant moment made me see the toxicity of our relationship,
It wasn’t the mental or emotional abuse I’d enured for years,
Nor the isolation, insecurity, fear, or anxiety you instigated,
All of that had become my normal,
It was the short taste of freedom,
The brief moment of me without you,
For that minute I could breath.
It was then I knew that I wanted you to leave.
Trying to force you to go or change only made the abuse worse,
Things were different though,
I was now aware of the abuse,
Awareness was everything,
Perhaps I couldn’t change you,
But I could change my reaction to you.
I no longer have to engage in your rants,
I have a choice today,
I can separate myself from you whenever I want,
And someday, perhaps I can divorce you for good.

Scary Story

Just got home, it’s late, and story time,
No this isn’t your run of the mill nursery rhyme,
It’s the kind that will keep you up at night,
Not rated R but contains strong self hate that may incite fright,
The after 10 delight,
The they judge you, can’t share with you, don’t want to be near you story,
The if your ass was smaller or you were prettier then they’d love you allegory,
But don’t worry,
Turn the lights on and check under the bed,
It’s all in your head,
But it’s based on actual events the story said,
“She looked at you anxiously when you spoke”,
“He wouldn’t sit next to you”, that’s all she wrote.
Never mind the people who knew your name,
Or who seemed glad you came,
The story is still the same,
You are ugly, worthless, lame,
You are not a caring human being,
Why would you entertain this story? Its just mean!
The debate continues, “because it’s true!” it screams,
Even if it is true…which it is not,
You don’t have to entertain every plot!
Change the story, make that shit up,
To what? That everyone loves me?
That just sounds fake,
Who doesn’t like fiction? For Pete’s sake!
Give it a new take, the best ever re-make,
Something with a happy ending,
That you have a good heart, are loved and are worthy of friending,
And read that shit every night,
Until it sounds right.
And read that shit every night,
Until it FEELS right!