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Eye of the storm


Before I begin this story, I want to say that this blog is not about me trying to be a writer. I'm not trying to have the perfect grammar and punctuation. This blog is a place for me to heal myself. Thank you to those of you who follow me, who come to my classes and workshops, who support me and believe in what I do and who I am.


I am currently off social media, so only those who have subscribed to my blog or perhaps wander across my website will find this.


There are times in life when we all experience pockets of grief and pain, for many different reasons. As you can see from prior blogs of mine, I write about how I navigate life with the tools of yoga and other modalities. I am very open, I have nothing to hide. It is, however, my right to tell my own story.


Some of my most private, deep stories were outed, without me there to speak my truth, to explain my experience. It really does feel like someone exposed that I was Queer before I was ready to say it myself. I feel naked, exposed, vulnerable. I did not have the chance to share these stories myself, for I wasn't asked. All anyone needed to do was ask.


Needle-sharp pain into dull, heavy heartache. Lather, rinse, repeat.


My words are ready. I need a break from you. I want to explain my truth. Don't come to me, I'll come to you.


Cavernous, hollow, metallic isolation. Eye of the tornado stillness. Powerless.


Time seems to stand still in tremendous grief. Everything seems to move just a little differently. The world is rushing around, speeding through intersections. I'm hovering above ground, like those spooky-ass monsters in that one scene on Buffy The Vampire Slayer. I'm a bruised hover-craft.


One of the hardest things about getting sober and cleaning up is coming face to face with the wreckage of the past. That wreckage is a train speeding along with the rapidly spiraling destruction of all that goes with addiction and chaos. The drinking and drugging stop, but that train is still charging forward, until it fucking hits. Stunned, shell-shocked, new-growth-fragile, you now have to try to deal with all that went down when you were using. Of course, the tricky part is to feel all that pain that you caused and not go back to using to medicate it. Most of us don't make it, statistically speaking. I was told that in my, what was it? Third treatment center? "Eighty percent of you will go back out and likely die". Not me, I thought to myself. But I did go back out. Many times. By Grace, I made it back, again.


Facing our pain, facing our true selves, is the biggest work we can do. My dirtiest of dirty laundry was hung in the wind by someone else. There it is. I did those things. I claim them to be true. I don't deny, nor defend. I accept the truth of my actions of the person I was THEN. That word, "then", is an important, nearly holy word that those of us in recovery must hang on to.


I didn't like the person I was THEN, so I changed. I didn't like the things I was doing, the pain I was causing, so I turned my life around 180 degrees with sprinkles on top, a couple times over. My actions caused others profound pain, but I cannot go back and change anything. I wish to God I could. All I can do is move forward. Healing means accepting responsibility, but also allowing the over-identification of who we think we are to shift. I am not the things I did. I am not the stories others created about me. I am not my abuse and neglect and needy scramblings for love and acceptance. I am not my pain. I am not.


I am a spiritual being having a human experience in all its coltish, fumbling awkwardness. I am growth. I am integration. I am forgiveness. I am brave. I am scared shitless and still upright. I am sad. I am open. I am imperfect. I am trying. I am a child. I am a mother. I am a person. I am sorry. I am powerless over what others think of me.


I am here.

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