Still

Here I am again. Frozen in a time that's both familiar and new. The merry go round has come around again and I am captured in another still moment of deja vu. Here I am again, all tears and defeat mixed with strength and upright spine.  Here I am. Again. Like the recreation of an old photograph, spanned through time. Another still. Another moment. Frozen.

It's different, but it's the same. I'm different, but I'm the same. The same little girl lost with messy hair and secrets. The same willful child who demands of others that the madness stop to no avail. The same little girl who feels both responsible and innocent.

Here I am again. Frozen in a still on this merry go round that seems to have no exit. But each turn has given me something more. A little more wisdom. A little more skill. A few more tools. A little more constructive damage and destructive strength. I'm dizzy and tired and this child's game stopped being fun a long time ago.

But it is all necessary. I have to believe that. Each turn has its purpose. Each time I'm thrown headfirst into the ground below, I recover a little slower yet a little bolder. Somehow, the broken parts heal more elastic each time. Somehow, it teaches me something useful to me or others. Somehow, it always changes me for the better. And somehow, I always end up back on the merry go round even when I know I shouldn't.

The pinball keeps pinging around. The merry go round keeps spinning. Here I am again. All rage and dejection and defeat and vigor. Here I am again taking taste tests of freedom, but not quite embracing it yet. Here I am again, knowing how the story ends, but surviving inside it first. The protagonist and antagonist both for and against myself. The other side of the climax, hurling toward the inevitable resolution.

Again and again and again and again and again. I want it to stop because it's making everyone sick. It won't. It doesn't. It never does. I get back on without knowing or wanting to. Again and again and again.
So here I am. Frozen. Dizzy. Unable to move. Catapulting toward the ground. Headfirst. Again.

Cleaning up the grafitti..

I can see him trying. I can see, in most moments, that he is making an effort to paint over all the old, ugly graffiti in our world with fresh, bright-colored paint. I can see that he is trying the best he can to keep the old words from bleeding through. I can see it. I'm watching. And I'm hesitantly, silently, cheering him on. He may not know it, but I am not a fairweather fan. I've been cheering him on even when he was having a losing season.

Sometimes he picks up the old spray paint can and starts to fall back into the familiar art of the graffiti. I speak up or walk away or just wait. And he picks up the paintbrush and goes back to work on the bright, new layer again. I can see it. I can feel it. I know it is happening. I cheer him on, in my way.

But I'm not ready to move back into his picture. I'm not washed of the graffiti. I can still feel it. Those words are still written on me.  And I know the spray paint can is still within his reach. It isn't empty. It isn't discarded. It is still there and I'm not ready. I have lost my impatience. I can wait.

But, while he is in his own battle against which art he decides will be his future, I have my own part of the wall. I am painting my own picture. With hues of beautiful orange and red sunsets, turquoise water and deep blue seas, green and yellow turtles, bold colored dresses that flow in the sea breeze, and the smiling faces of the people I meet. And I am peeking at his work and hoping again, that somehow our two works can come back together. I thought I had lost that hope, given up on the idea because the art of us had diverged too much. But I find myself hoping again that somehow the ugly graffiti wall that is still between us is swallowed up by the connection of our separate bright, beautiful, new experiences. 

And we can move back together. And our art can become a  collage again.

But I'm not ready yet.

Honestly

It's been a very emotional last two weeks or so. It has probably been longer, but something in me broke a little bit the last couple of weeks. I'm not entirely sure what it was or why it happened when it did. I just hit a point that the tea pot I'd been trying to contain it all in started to whistle too loud. I didn't explode...much. Just a slowly rising whistle that got too loud to ignore. When I tried to turn the heat down underneath, the knob just wouldn't turn this time. Instead of pulling out my tools to fix it, I just let the whistling go on. And it was emotional. Angry, sad, crazy, loud. I just let it go on. Because it needed to boil over.

And it did. And now it's quiet again. And I have my tools out. The knob is moving again. The heat is bearable and the tea pot is intact. The whistling is just a haunting echo that is teaching me yet more wisdom. I suppose it was necessary. It always is.

But in the whistling, I learned. It's odd the things you learn in your most vulnerable moments. It's not what you expect to learn. It's not the big answers to the pressing stressors that caused the whistling to begin with. It's the subtle notes under the screaming high pitches that teach you. I don't know what to do about the big questions. Those are still simmering. But I did learn.

During the course of the last two weeks, I said some very honest things. If I wasn't so exhausted from all the noise and the heat and the lack of ability (or maybe will) to turn it down, I wouldn't have said them. I wouldn't have just blurted out the words. I'd have considered them taboo, or at least private enough that I only ever needed to say them to myself. I trust myself most of the time. But when the boiling starts, I'm not to be trusted. So, I said them out loud.

And it was scary and awkward. I expected to quickly regret it. I expected to be admonished or punished for letting my inside come outside. That's the way it's always been. Emotional honesty thrown at toxic people who answered with poison. Toxic people were all I had. And it was exhausting to try to detoxify myself onto people who didn't have any room to absorb it. They were too full of poison.

But, something has changed. Even some of the same people who were formally poisonous became absorbant. New friends, whom I feared wouldn't understand and therefore would not accept the beautiful swirling mess of me, saw my vulnerability. They didn't grimace or turn away or kick me when I was down. They didn't exploit it. They didn't criticize it. And when I admitted, far too honestly, that I was afraid they'd do just that, they comforted me. They acknowledged the mess and accepted it for what it was. Without judgment or anger or the all too familiar abandonment. They just comforted me.

No one told me what I wanted to hear just for the sake of it. No one laughed or ridiculed me. No one punched me in the gaping hole that I showed them in my character. No one was upset that I let the super hero cape fall off my shoulders. No one ran from my naked emotion. No one minded at all that I was so honest. They just comforted me. They cared. They expected nothing more than who I was at that moment. And it was incredible.

I often think about how easy things must be for people who haven't had the kinds of trauma and rich experiences that I've had. People who just move around with ease and never worry about whether they'll be attacked or derided or diminished simply for being. How does that feel? To not be on guard. To not have that nagging hypervigilence. I've only ever felt that way once when I was far away from everyone and everything familiar. But it came rushing back in any time I came within hearing distance of anyone I formerly knew.

I also wonder about people who just hold it all in. They've had the trauma and the rich experiences. They've heard the whistling so long that it's a part of every day life and  they don't even hear it anymore. I wonder how those people survive every day with complete ignorance of their loud dysfunction. I guess ignorance is bliss. They seem ok with themselves, even if they don't seem ok to me.

But, I'm neither of those. I'm comprised almost entirely from a collection of my experiences and the wisdom gained from the acknowledgement of them. I'm acutely aware of the whistling. I've learned how to quiet it and learned that sometimes I might need to be driven a bit mad by it. I know me extremely well. And I know that I can trust me now, even when the heat gets too high and I go a little crazy. I know how to be honest with myself.

But there's something new I learned in the last couple of weeks of emotional rawness. It turns out that I can be honest with some other people too. I can spew out even those darker parts and still be accepted as more than just those parts. I can be vulnerable and not expect to have salt poured into the painful spots.

Maybe that's the wisdom of choosing people to have around me that are a bit safer. A bit better. A bit less toxic. Or maybe it's my perception that's changed. Maybe it's the world's. Maybe it's both or nether. All the same, I'm grateful.

And the whistling as subsided. The knob is fixed. Everything is being properly regulated again. Decisions need to be made, but they can be made in quiet, as slowly as they need to be.

I've had stress on my mind a lot lately. Mainly because I've been stressed in a way that I haven't felt in a long time. A nagging way that makes my chest hurt and makes it hard to breathe. I have confronted that stress and have been trying to reconcile it with my faith and my promise to myself that I would never allow this kind of stress to overwhelm me again. It's not because it's unpleasant. I can deal with unpleasant. It is because this level of stress has only ever been an indication to me that change is necessary and has to occur. It's because my promise to me was to always embrace the internal freedom happiness Mexico Shano very often had. My promise to me was to control the things I could and let go of the things I could not. My promise to me was to walk away from stress and embrace calm happiness. And my decades-old promise to myself was to try, with all of my ability, to follow my faith, as it has never failed me when I mindfully embraced and learned from it. 

So, I've had some burning questions about my recent stress. First, my stress is nothing to do with my life situation as a whole. My stress is related to a mid-stage change that ultimately will culminate into a much better situation that will bring a later positive and reduce a longer-term stress. It is temporary. But, in reality, all stress is temporary. So, why is the stress so necessary? Once I spent a bit of time with these questions, I realized my stress has almost always been necessary. And that this stress, too, is necessary. 

Second, isn't it the general goal of my faith to recognize and then move past suffering, aka, eliminate stress? Aren't I suppose to be striving for living in the present moment and not spending needless time worrying about the future, which is what stress essentially is, isn't it? Aren't I betraying my own faith by not maintaining a constant calm and a steadfast belief that everything will work out just as it should? Shouldn't I be taking the "live in the moment" approach and just "going with the flow" with the blind faith that it'll all just work itself out? For this, I had to do some research. I had to look back into teachings and interpretations. I had to look to Buddha himself and to the many wise interpretations of his teachings. I had to look into the essences of suffering and what centuries of teachings made of it. I had to take some time. And, ultimately, I found an answer. The answer that, my stress is necessary and has a purpose. 

Both answers jived together as the same answer. Some stress; this kind of stress; the stress I'm feeling now, is completely and fully necessary and has a purpose. It is not the same sort of purpose that other major stresses in my life have had. The stress is not related to needing a major life change or a full purge of current circumstances. It only means that I have things to do. Many, many things to do. And that I'm not doing them to the best of my ability.

There are a lot of factors to that. Mainly, I'm not the only person who is necessary to check things off my growing to do list. To borrow the old yet time-tested truth, I can only change what is in my control. I cannot control what others do and do not do. But, when others actions, or lack thereof, impede my own progress, I get a stressed. So, my necessary stress is partially unnecessary. Or, at the very least, prolonged.