edge hill
today's been a whale of a day.
countless little things have been building up until last Sunday, when I felt like someone added a tiny green pickup stick on top of the pile that made the entire structure fall-- count the sticks still touching at the end and subtract them from your score...
I know, firmly, that things will get better. And I keep reminding myself, over and over, of how good so many things are, and how I just need to keep a clear vision of that and hold onto it as I weather the things that have me twisted and knotted and worried and awake at night.
Sometimes though, even when you are very grateful for the things that you hold dear and fiercely optimistic for the things that are about to come, the presence of anxiety is very real, very physical, very relentless, and sometimes even scary. Always frustrating...and entirely draining.
There were times in the past when I struggled with these things; times and events that I try to not think about, but sometimes there's something powerful in remembering them...
tonight I had to wait a long time before I felt enough like myself to go to bed. I felt so relieved to feel "normal" and cheerful again after a long day, just excited to make myself as cozy as possible in bed and drift off. But as soon I got in bed, I was whomped with high-octane feelings and a blur of thoughts all over again, erasing the peaceful and Jane-like mood that I'd just entered the tree bed with.
It brings up cringe-worthy but very personal memories from the first few months I'd moved back to CO, when things were so intense and out of my control that I would bottle everything up until close to midnight-- the only time I was alone each day-- and then the emotions would rise to the surface, no matter how hard I fought it. Every day, month after month, midnight would be this oddly cathartic and deeply rattling experience, like the tide going out in my heart, revealing all the secrets buried in the sand below.
The memory of those nights literally makes me ache just thinking about them-- it feels like I want to go back in time and protect my old self from that experience. But it also makes me think about my limits, and accept the fact that regardless of whether I like it or not, my body has a very intense reaction to the internalization of stress. I think I've been trying to 'train' for this the past several years... trying to toughen myself up, increasing my tolerance to stress internalization the way an athlete tries to systematically raise their pain threshold. But tonight as I curled up in my tree bed and felt the immediate, visceral and involuntary pangs of stress release, I realized that I need to accept myself for needing outlets for frustration and stress and sadness and chaos. I need to be ok with the fact that if something's bothering me, I need to talk about it or write it out... I can't run it off or eat it away or tamp it down with a Mary Poppins & Bert-worthy chimney sweeping brush. I've been denying this for years, and my body's been fighting it very hard.
Ok. Ok, brain. Ok, clenched teeth and aching shoulder muscles. Ok, nervous stomach. I'm listening. I'm sorry.
Step 1: deep, deep breaths.
Step 2: Put on a song from Peter-- Edge Hill by Groove Armada-- and repeat over and over and over and over
Step 3: Wabash long-sleeve t-shirt that dad gave me
Step 4: gentle, non-directed inner monologue
Step 5: continue playing Edge hill until inner monologue leaves
Step 6: very quiet, mumbled, reassuring thoughts to self about what tomorrow will bring
Step 7: Curl deeper into the covers so the tide can return, bringing warmer waters. And whales.
*What is it about whales?
There are few things on this earth that make me question my religious choices more than whales. They are the epitome of spirituality and awe for me... something so massive and graceful and profound, and they share the same planet as we do. It makes the hairs raise on my arms. I'm dumbstruck every time I see a whale... I want to pull on the person's sleeve who's standing next to me, like a small child.
Look!
That exists!
Last week, when Jessie was visiting, we went to Lucille's for breakfast on a rainy Monday morning, and we were seated just a few tables over from Lamont...
my childhood hero.
It was a delicious but a non-translatable experience, reveling in the delight of my own inside joke...
every "magic does exist" tagline from every G-rated movie from the past 20 years wouldn't even do it justice.
It was a very sweet moment in a worried, busy time.
Memories of Lamont and whales.
To the sounds of Edge Hill.
The things that need to be remembered when things stop making sense.
The things to let go to.
♥
countless little things have been building up until last Sunday, when I felt like someone added a tiny green pickup stick on top of the pile that made the entire structure fall-- count the sticks still touching at the end and subtract them from your score...
I know, firmly, that things will get better. And I keep reminding myself, over and over, of how good so many things are, and how I just need to keep a clear vision of that and hold onto it as I weather the things that have me twisted and knotted and worried and awake at night.
Sometimes though, even when you are very grateful for the things that you hold dear and fiercely optimistic for the things that are about to come, the presence of anxiety is very real, very physical, very relentless, and sometimes even scary. Always frustrating...and entirely draining.
There were times in the past when I struggled with these things; times and events that I try to not think about, but sometimes there's something powerful in remembering them...
tonight I had to wait a long time before I felt enough like myself to go to bed. I felt so relieved to feel "normal" and cheerful again after a long day, just excited to make myself as cozy as possible in bed and drift off. But as soon I got in bed, I was whomped with high-octane feelings and a blur of thoughts all over again, erasing the peaceful and Jane-like mood that I'd just entered the tree bed with.
It brings up cringe-worthy but very personal memories from the first few months I'd moved back to CO, when things were so intense and out of my control that I would bottle everything up until close to midnight-- the only time I was alone each day-- and then the emotions would rise to the surface, no matter how hard I fought it. Every day, month after month, midnight would be this oddly cathartic and deeply rattling experience, like the tide going out in my heart, revealing all the secrets buried in the sand below.
The memory of those nights literally makes me ache just thinking about them-- it feels like I want to go back in time and protect my old self from that experience. But it also makes me think about my limits, and accept the fact that regardless of whether I like it or not, my body has a very intense reaction to the internalization of stress. I think I've been trying to 'train' for this the past several years... trying to toughen myself up, increasing my tolerance to stress internalization the way an athlete tries to systematically raise their pain threshold. But tonight as I curled up in my tree bed and felt the immediate, visceral and involuntary pangs of stress release, I realized that I need to accept myself for needing outlets for frustration and stress and sadness and chaos. I need to be ok with the fact that if something's bothering me, I need to talk about it or write it out... I can't run it off or eat it away or tamp it down with a Mary Poppins & Bert-worthy chimney sweeping brush. I've been denying this for years, and my body's been fighting it very hard.
Ok. Ok, brain. Ok, clenched teeth and aching shoulder muscles. Ok, nervous stomach. I'm listening. I'm sorry.
Step 1: deep, deep breaths.
Step 2: Put on a song from Peter-- Edge Hill by Groove Armada-- and repeat over and over and over and over
Step 3: Wabash long-sleeve t-shirt that dad gave me
Step 4: gentle, non-directed inner monologue
Step 5: continue playing Edge hill until inner monologue leaves
Step 6: very quiet, mumbled, reassuring thoughts to self about what tomorrow will bring
Step 7: Curl deeper into the covers so the tide can return, bringing warmer waters. And whales.
*What is it about whales?
There are few things on this earth that make me question my religious choices more than whales. They are the epitome of spirituality and awe for me... something so massive and graceful and profound, and they share the same planet as we do. It makes the hairs raise on my arms. I'm dumbstruck every time I see a whale... I want to pull on the person's sleeve who's standing next to me, like a small child.
Look!
That exists!
Last week, when Jessie was visiting, we went to Lucille's for breakfast on a rainy Monday morning, and we were seated just a few tables over from Lamont...
my childhood hero.
It was a delicious but a non-translatable experience, reveling in the delight of my own inside joke...
every "magic does exist" tagline from every G-rated movie from the past 20 years wouldn't even do it justice.
It was a very sweet moment in a worried, busy time.
Memories of Lamont and whales.
To the sounds of Edge Hill.
The things that need to be remembered when things stop making sense.
The things to let go to.
♥
posted by JustJane at
12:32 AM
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