I ordered a month's worth of a well-known diet shake/program in May. Then in June, my stepfather got sick and died, so I never got around to trying it.
I sat down today to finally open the box. The contents were interesting. I held each item - the bag of shake mix, the two plastic tumblers from which to drink it, the booklets, "my tracker" - and felt like it would certainly be worth a shot.
Then I set it all neatly aside and opened the Little Debbie I had carried to my desk. It went really well with my coffee.
There's just so much.
I feel so big and so little.
Confusion and frustration.
Anger.
But still...
Here is the advice the universe has sent me today:
"Jesus replied, 'Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.'" (sheee-it, that's a heady one to start with)
My fucking Keurig bit the dust today. It worked first thing this morning (so I guess I should count that blessing), but after dropping J off and stopping by the store (where I bought creamer so I wouldn't have to use milk again), coming in the door to realize my house still somehow smells like the tuna salad I made (and cleaned up) yesterday, almost pissing my pants before I could get the groceries put away, and knocking the pile of clean dishes loudly into the sink, I was primed for that second cup. But no. No more coffee for me right now unless I take my soggy ass back out to buy a cup (and I'm really trying to be more conscious of how much plastic I use). Goddamnit. Which brings me to my reason for writing this morning. Every time something fairly trivial but also fairly bad happens - things like finding a giant spider in the tub when I'm already running behind, stubbing my toe really badly, not quite making it to the stupid toilet in time - I feel like it's God or whoever punishing me for something. "Remember that nasty thought you had about so-and-so? Best-fitting shirt now torn. Bam." And it makes me pissed at God. Especially when I've been working so hard the past few days and weeks to be a better person - not so good things will happen to me, but to be a better freaking person! I don't deserve for my Keurig to break or for my house to stink. I've been working to CLEAN my house and get rid of the unnecessary stuff. And then unnecessary bad stuff happens. Okay. I know these are first world problems. That aside, I also kind of know that God isn't punishing me. But, I mean, sometimes I think he is. That's the God I met in the Bible and the one that stayed around in my heart - the mean, punishing father who'll send you to hell for writing things like "Godddamnit." I don't know. I guess what I'm supposed to take from this is to keep trying to figure my shit out with God, and learn to respond less extremely and more healthily to life's little hiccups. It just seems like it's been hiccup after hiccup after hiccup for a very long time. And there have been some big, um, hurl-fests I've had to deal with on my own. So when the hiccups happen, I lose my shit a bit. Anyway, there it is. And all the parentheses and dashes. Even my writing is cluttered. I still need coffee. I'm still pissed.
This was a draft dated sometime very early in the year... February maybe. Probably soon after I had read the article about grounding, which is basically walking around outside barefoot. Something about the ions in the earth, letting them into your soul via your soles... There was a bunch of info that was a little woo-woo, but also very inviting... I vaguely remember wanting to write about it. Apparently the title is as far as I got.
It felt good to finally write and publish a post earlier ("Mud"). I have listened to the accompanying GD song a couple of times since publishing and what I am gathering is that my situation with the mud is one that I'm going to have to help myself out of. "I will walk alone... sing me a song of my own..."
Really, it makes complete sense. For so long I have heard, said, and believed that I have to be okay with me before anyone else can be okay with me. I live in mud, I leave myself there, I bury myself in it... why would anyone believe I'm anything but happy and content there? Yeah, part of me is like, "Hey, dumbasses... can you not SEE that I'm unhappy here?" But they're response could rightly be, "Um... then get out of it..."
I could go on about that forever, but I think the point is I have to get out of it myself. I really think that's my lesson and my task. I have to want to get out, believe I can get out, and do the hard work of getting the hell out.
The hard work.
Sigh.
The hard work frustrates and scares me. Because it's hard.
I could go on about that forever, too.
But anyway, I think I'll read all the lyrics to "Black Muddy River" and see what else is there. Maybe I don't need to "find a use" for the mud. Maybe I just need to acknowledge it and let it go.
Could it be that simple?
Oh, and the grounding... The weather's a lot warmer now than it was in February or whenever I read that article. I think it's time for feet on the ground.
Write what you know. I mean, it feels lame, writing about this depression. But that's what I know the most about right now, it seems. And I need to write, for frig's sake. The last time I talked to anyone about needing to write was... I want to say March? I talked to her about feeling like I was down in a hole, staring at the mud, and I added my whine about wanting and needing to write. Her reply? "So write about the mud." That has been in my head since she said it. Write about the mud. I know the mud, I look at the mud every day (or I think about it with my eyes closed so I don't have to look at it). I cover myself in it. I disappear into it. So why not write about it? It's what I know. So, the mud. It's dark and pretty disgusting. It smells. Not an altogether bad smell, but how good can mud really smell? It smears everything that touches it. It sticks and stains. It never really dries.It's brown. It's dirt and water. Dirt. Water. Essentials for plants to grow, for roots to take hold... But mud... What's mud good for? There must be something. But I've been in it so long, I can't see out of it. I can't see an answer. I'm not a plant, and my roots don't work like that. And no one wants to get down in here with me. People may want to pull me out, but they either know that they can't, or they don't want to (or can't afford to) get close enough to get this mud all over themselves. So I'm stuck here, a pig in her wallow, trying to figure out what this mud can be for, other than slowly, slowly pulling me under, letting me hide, burying me alive. What is it good for? I can't see out. I can't see an answer.
I've had four arguments in my head today. One happened twice (and also out loud as I recounted it to my sister). I'm not sure if I won any of them, though I did make some good points. I was also a little mean. Someone was renamed "Nathan No-balls." I know I've always been at least somewhat defensive, often jumping to the wrong or worst conclusion right away, making things bigger than they really are. But it seems that others do it, too - there's a meme about when people shower, they spend most of that time winning fake arguments in their mind. So it's something others can relate to, apparently. Why is this? Why do our minds wander into thoughts that turn into imaginary confrontations? Are we planning ahead for situations in which we might have to defend ourselves against the person who takes our parking space, or who is nice to everyone at work except for us, or who broke our hearts? Do we really think we're practicing for a real moment, so we have the courage to say what we feel? Are we just mean, or maybe scared, or just immature? I don't know the answer, but I've thought about it a little today. I thought about it again when my sister dropped me off by my car, which was parked in front of her house. It took me a moment to gather my belongings from the back seat, and while her car was in the street, the person who lives across the street from her came out and stood on the porch. Perhaps he had a legitimate reason for doing so, but it appeared that he simply came out because someone had the audacity to linger in front of his house. Again, I'm jumping to the worst conclusion (did I mention I do that sometimes?) - that this guy is a prick who will not abide the presence of any car or person in front of his house without his say-so. But the thing is, I think I may be right about him. So, again... why? Why the need to come outside and wave your dick around because someone needed to stop in front of their own house, which happens to also be in front of yours? Do you own the street? The air around your rental house and gigantic red truck? Are you a member of the neighborhood watch, perhaps, and were concerned about those around you? Maybe you were scared? Still no answers. Perhaps there's no point in even pondering it. Even so, it kind of bothers me... that we become defensive when something doesn't happen as we expected or wanted. As I've considered all this, what HAS become clear to me is that my best solution is to continue practicing mindfulness and actively trying to nurture what's positive while weeding out the negative when it pops up. I've been on that path for several weeks now, and it has made a difference. Even with the down moments surrounding the holidays, I can objectively look and recognize that things are getting better. This makes me feel strong. And happy. And humble. And all of those are great tools to use against feelings of defensiveness. I hope this year to remove some of the fences in my life, some of the walls. Some will need to stay, of course. We all need protection. Those walls I will decorate beautifully with the wonderful things I love... colors and pictures and art. And I'll continue to tend my path, allowing it to become open, allowing it to widen where it should, allowing it to lead me where I need to go.
