What do we do when we can’t use our often taken for granted outlets to feel better? What do we do when we can’t pacify with the things we never thought would be taken from us? What do we do when the substances we once sought for comfort and refuge no longer provide that comfort and refuge?
At 18, drugs and alcohol stopped working and my love affair with things those not easily influenced would consider tragic was quickly brought to a halt. I then sought work to relieve me of myself, and a few years later was knocked out with my 8th concussion and had to stop relying on work to fill my void. Just before that, my anorexia was raging, and that head injury flipped a switch into clogging toilets at night and driving miles and miles and miles to secure binge foods.
Years went by and eventually, that stopped working too. I was so very sick and tired of being so sick and tired. Men were sprinkled throughout that time, but a full throttled focus on my body and diet always took primary residence. It wasn’t until I moved to Maryland that I fully conceded to my innermost self that I had to get my shit together, or else.
Or else I wouldn’t ever be fully present in my life. Or else I wouldn’t ever be fully available for the people I so desperately wanted around me. Or else I’d die a very slow, exhausting and self-centered death and forever be robbed of my true spirit. Or else I’d never fulfill my purpose or find the light others told me I could despite ditching drugs and alcohol as a teenager.
I had a good stretch. I had years of pretty decent living, success, better body acceptance and dietary freedom. I met who I believe is the man of my dreams, bought a delightful home in a perfect zip code (for me), and pressed onward.
And then I broke my leg. The right to drive myself anywhere, walk to the bathroom, run or exercise in a way that I had taken for granted for so long was immediately stripped from my grips. My meditative walks with the dogs and no phone were gone. The ease of which I rolled out of bed onto my knees was gone. The ability to be alone and comfortable was gone. Taking drives by myself and bookending meetings with phone calls was gone.
For the most part, I did fine. I let people know I needed them. As best I possibly could, I remained positive and hopeful and had my bouts of pity but mostly stayed the course of what was laid out for me. I did throw myself into work, but only worked normal hours. I did buy some clothes online, but I did so to prevent me from hiding in oversized sweatpants and forever cement my fear of jeans and not fitting into real clothes. I contemplated a new car but let it pass. I didn’t overeat, undereat, overexercise or force things that weren’t meant to be forced. I did my best to lean into gratitude that I was otherwise capable of taking care of myself and learned firsthand that I will not die if I can’t train or move or do anything independently. I learned that exercise is a form of love for me, and respect. It is not punishment. It is not a way to eat food. It is not a means to dilute myself, but more a manner in which I express my joy.
And I was ready. I was ready to find self in unorthodox ways. I was ready to be in my body, inhabit my own home, and trust that this too would eventually pass. I was ready to get quiet and be really fucking uncomfortable for extended periods of time, physically and emotionally, and lean in. I was ready to take a closer look.
And as it turned out, I was being prepared for this right now, because here we are again, all at home. I am still working, but things are quite slow, so work isn’t giving me my “high”. I can drive now, but there isn’t really anywhere to go. I can run, thank God, and all of that work is solo. I can’t hide with my friends or even go camp out with my mom. I have to just be. I have to be at home. I have to hang out with Mike when I want to blow up the house. I have to take care of the dogs.
And I have to take care of me! The behaviors that once appealed to me to help me feel better no longer do that – they remind me of a time when I didn’t know my truth or my worth. They remind me of a time when I didn’t believe that things would actually pass, or that I wouldn’t die in the process. They remind me of what it could be like if I don’t stay vigilant in all of my affairs and keep practicing the never-ending practice of self-forgetting and brainwashing. My stories are loud some days, but I am reminded that they don’t have to be true. I can question them and then watch them go, to reappear with different characters and chapter titles later. And then I can inquire with those and let them go too.
Are you inquiring and re-titling chapters, or writing a new novel with a bad ending full of old options that you didn’t even know you were writing? Either way, it’s OK. We are never given more than we can handle, and I think right now we are all given wheelbarrows and shovels to start resetting for real.