but i never left, i was always right here.
Monday, June 9th, 2014 05:05 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
erika(I wrote this entry two weeks ago but never posted it. sorry, y'all)
Monday in the middle of May, I had what's called a UP3 surgery, plus additional tonsil removal.
I felt TOTALLY out of it afterwards, even though I was doing everything normally. I blame the narcotics.
I like to look at happy pictures when I'm sad but sometimes I'm scared to look for them because what if I run into a sad picture on the way?
These are happy pictures of brides seeing their bride on a wedding day
When I'm depressed, the enormity of life wears me down. I pare down the activities I participate in, the people I agree to see, the obligations I used to enjoy—trying to get rid of the thing that's making me feel bad, but then there's nothing left to lose... and life still forever remains exhausting in its emptiness.
I've mentioned to a few friends that I want to start scheduling myself some writing time in the mornings. An hour, roughly around 10am, for my brain to just let things go.
(Aidyn curled up on the floor, on a blanket, on the electric blanket with cords delicately wound around his feet like he or they were a species of vine. If I were to pet him, he would be soft, he would welcome it, but his nose twitches that tiny little bit and I know he's asleep, dulcet dreaming, and I don't want to disturb him.)
I find myself doing anything—even organizing my email—instead of writing. What's so hard about it? What am I avoiding? For avoiding it I am, and evidently with some real deftness.
Writing is like meditating. I know I need to do it regularly to feel at my best, I know that I feel better when I do it, but actually doing it feels about less appealing than scrubbing the kitchen floor.
I guess the need to garner attention in such dramatic ways dropped once I had the ability to give MYSELF the attention I needed ~quirkytizzy
Exactly.
I find that there's a distinct subgroup of people (almost always women) who give and give and give in order to either sublimate their problems into helping other people and therefore being "useful", and/or to get attention back because they can only be "fixed" by someone else's efforts.
You may notice that these two options are pretty much the same thing. I don't think I'm far from the truth when I say in my experience, it boils down to this and purely this: I was terrified to attend to myself, my own needs, my problems, my wants and desires, because my entire life growing up—my culture, my family, and the media I consumed—told me that it was completely wrong of me to want anything for myself.
"Selfish bitch" is probably one of the nicest things you hear about a woman who puts her priorities, herself over other people.
But within us all is our Self, that beautiful expanse of free creation and boundless love that, like a garden, we can either choose to tend, or ignore. If, like a garden, we tend it, we have strong fences (boundaries) to keep out the riff-raff & vermin, AND we make sure our needs are met, we then have nearly-endless love-zucchini to give out about the neighborhood.
... that metaphor makes a lot of sense in my head. Maybe you'll just have to trust me on this. Plus I may rework this comment into an entry <3
Monday in the middle of May, I had what's called a UP3 surgery, plus additional tonsil removal.
I felt TOTALLY out of it afterwards, even though I was doing everything normally. I blame the narcotics.
I like to look at happy pictures when I'm sad but sometimes I'm scared to look for them because what if I run into a sad picture on the way?
These are happy pictures of brides seeing their bride on a wedding day
When I'm depressed, the enormity of life wears me down. I pare down the activities I participate in, the people I agree to see, the obligations I used to enjoy—trying to get rid of the thing that's making me feel bad, but then there's nothing left to lose... and life still forever remains exhausting in its emptiness.
I've mentioned to a few friends that I want to start scheduling myself some writing time in the mornings. An hour, roughly around 10am, for my brain to just let things go.
(Aidyn curled up on the floor, on a blanket, on the electric blanket with cords delicately wound around his feet like he or they were a species of vine. If I were to pet him, he would be soft, he would welcome it, but his nose twitches that tiny little bit and I know he's asleep, dulcet dreaming, and I don't want to disturb him.)
I find myself doing anything—even organizing my email—instead of writing. What's so hard about it? What am I avoiding? For avoiding it I am, and evidently with some real deftness.
Writing is like meditating. I know I need to do it regularly to feel at my best, I know that I feel better when I do it, but actually doing it feels about less appealing than scrubbing the kitchen floor.
I guess the need to garner attention in such dramatic ways dropped once I had the ability to give MYSELF the attention I needed ~
quirkytizzyExactly.
I find that there's a distinct subgroup of people (almost always women) who give and give and give in order to either sublimate their problems into helping other people and therefore being "useful", and/or to get attention back because they can only be "fixed" by someone else's efforts.
You may notice that these two options are pretty much the same thing. I don't think I'm far from the truth when I say in my experience, it boils down to this and purely this: I was terrified to attend to myself, my own needs, my problems, my wants and desires, because my entire life growing up—my culture, my family, and the media I consumed—told me that it was completely wrong of me to want anything for myself.
"Selfish bitch" is probably one of the nicest things you hear about a woman who puts her priorities, herself over other people.
But within us all is our Self, that beautiful expanse of free creation and boundless love that, like a garden, we can either choose to tend, or ignore. If, like a garden, we tend it, we have strong fences (boundaries) to keep out the riff-raff & vermin, AND we make sure our needs are met, we then have nearly-endless love-zucchini to give out about the neighborhood.
... that metaphor makes a lot of sense in my head. Maybe you'll just have to trust me on this. Plus I may rework this comment into an entry <3
