#shadowparts

…at 32…

But for whatever reason, that seems to be exactly what needs to happen.  Or, what I feel needs to happen.

I have thrown away every journal I’ve ever written in.  Ripped out pages moments or days later.  Looked at the words with disgust because I didn’t feel authentic.  For someone that totes not giving a shit, I give so much shit that it explains why I feel like it so much, sometimes.  I think I always expected someone to find it or read it and it changed the lens in which I viewed myself and the world.

I guess I need to look at this differently.  I expect the people that I work with to have a propensity for vulnerability.  I expect risk-taking.  I get to witness their growth and their regression.  Why I don’t demand as much, if not more of myself is beyond me.  Maybe the possibility of one or a million people witnessing my own depth will cause me to take more accountability.  Even if there isn’t a single one, the implication is enough.

It’s not about being 32.  It’s about the two year old, the six year old, the ten, fifteen, 25, a-day-ago entity layered upon each other that needs to integrate it all together.  And fucking accountability.  I minimize and rationalize way too much and pick apart the details that suit me in order to feel better about not following through or surpassing.  

I started a goal this year to make myself as uncomfortable as possible.  Ironically, I think I’ve done really well with that goal and literally started at 1pm, January 1st.  On the surface, it was overcoming the general discomfort of 38 degree water with a couple hundred other people.  A mile below, it was about battling severe anxiety and fear– including a fear of suddenly dying.  What a way to begin to mindfully begin to tell my mother to fuck off.  And perky tits.  Not the point, but that was a pleasant, brief benefit.  My only regret occurred during a post-swim spontaneous local news interview where I didn’t respond with  “so I could maybe feel something” when asked why I did it.  

Well, fuck me, the dark humor all these months later is unbearably true.  It’s messages all over the place guiding to these areas I’ve never been to that feel like home.  All these pulls to stress my body out as much as possible, to meditate, to disconnect, to wander, to restrain in order to indulge, to channel all that Jungian bullshit and meet the shadow parts.  It is, after all, what we seek when the light is too much.

So what does that all look like?  What are the odd messages? What have I been hearing for years?  How do I separate these ideas from the spirit of defiance that seems to enjoy self-punishment?  

Cover myself with tattoos.  Poke some more holes.  Run mountains.  Be alone.  Starve.  Fall asleep outside.  Surround myself with dogs and heavy music.  Play it.  Suspend thought.  Cry.  Beat the shit out of something.  Teach.  Suffer great loss.  Remain silent.  Continue devotion to public service.  Fire.  A home.  Acceptance.  Contact.  Breakdown.  Love.

A sublimation of all of that suicidal and dysphoric energy for years and reframing it into a cry for authenticity and meaningful stress.  Not martyrdom.  Targeting discomfort seems to be creating the holding space I need, but I have to keep going.

I don’t know what it’s towards.  I just know what the intention and journey prevents where I came from.  I’m no longer seeking an answer.  It would imply an end for me.  

I, like anyone else, and meant to be a blend of the absolute best and absolute worst of the human experience.  I’m meant to accept and appreciate those insidious nightmares as much as I do the moments that remind me that I’m okay.  But I have to be honest about them when they’re there, even if I fear that it will destroy me.  I can accept that part still wanting to die while overlooking a beautiful Honduran landscape or in Patagonia and feel equally as deserving to live.

So, here it is.  I’m going to talk to myself and work through everything from the meaning of some innocuous event to some brutally honest realizations and experiences– most of which I hope to induce.  

I’m meant to kick my own ass; for once, it doesn’t feel like for reasons of punishment and shame.  What a gift…