I’ve never really been robbed before. I had shit taken out of a car back in early college when we thought it was fun to still go to raves. But this? This is different. This feels personal, even if it isn’t. Like such a violation of my privacy and vulnerability. Friday night my Jeep was stolen, right outside my front door. A Jeep I dreamed of having – my brother’s favorite car.
I worked hard for my SRT. It was the first brand new car I had purchased myself, and I gave her a bath regularly. She was pristine, and not once (beyond the first few mornings of “holy shit I can’t believe I just spent that much money on a car”) did I regret having her. She was a sense of pride, joy, and love. I felt like myself when I drove, and safe. I felt confident and connected. Of course, I know a car is a thing and in a lot of ways, this kind of car tied right into my ego and my worthiness and my identity as driving and owning such a sexy goddess tends to do that.
But still – what the fuck. To have something so valuable and important to me and hard earned stolen in probably 30 seconds one night because somebody wanted what I had feels awful. It’s caused me to second guess myself, triple look over my shoulder and make sure the door is locked at all times. It even caused me to jump a little at a shadow from my neighbor’s parked trailer because I am still so unnerved.
And tired. I am fucking tired. I am tired of life shitting on me. I am tired of being tested. I am tired of being stripped down to my naked roots, forced to either level up or crumble. I am sick of having to rely on my foundation of next right actions and gratitude. I am sick of feeling like “well, shit – this ain’t so bad. Especially compared to losing Matt.” That sucks! And it’s real.
I am not pitying myself – I know I am OK, and I also know that once again, I’ve had enough. I’m also aware that when I’m tired, I am not my best spiritual self. Or sanist. Or right sized. My brain is trying to fuck me right now, and I know that.
It’s trying to convince me that I am fat. That I have a pooch. That I am not lean enough. That I am not small enough. That I don’t look good enough. That I don’t know how to take care of myself and can’t trust my years of recovery through these next few holiday parties and social gatherings and time with the people I love. It says that I am not enough. It’s my native brain’s way of coping, of trying to make sense of yet another nonsensical situation. It’s my disease, talking to me in my own voice, trying to convince me that I had something to do with this. That this is somehow my fault. It’s my disease trying to get me when I’m exposed, vulnerable, and scared.
Intellectually, I know that I am safe. Nobody is coming after me – they came after my car, and now my car is gone. SRT’s are being targeted – not Alison. Alison just so happened to have what they wanted. Nothing with personal information was in the car – just a lot of gym stuff, my brother’s tag I had made, Bam’s collar that is now gone forever, my headphones and a lot of sunglasses. Not my wallet or my money or my computer. And not me, thank God.
Intellectually, I also know that I am not fat – I have been wearing the same very small sized pants for years now. I am eating more flexibly than I have maybe ever, while also keeping up with what I know works for me. I am not eating more, but I am living more. I train hard, I train often, and I know that my body is not the problem. It would be easier for my body to be the “problem”, because then I could potentially do something about it, instead of feeling how utterly fucking powerless I am over life being life. On repeat.
I hate that I can’t control life, but maybe this is God’s way of letting me know, not ironically as I work through steps on money, that I don’t need things to identify my worth or my nature. Or old behaviors. Or old ideas. Maybe this is God’s way of reminding me what is actually important – not things, not money, not metrics or wins (or losses) at work, but that people (again) and relationships (again) and how I am bares far greater value than anything else. And maybe this was the louder, more painful way to shift my attention back to what matters so I could slow down and be fully present for my family and myself as we head into Christmas #2 without Matt.
What would Matt want? Well, besides pining after the idiots that took our favorite car, he’d want me to be enjoying my life, immersing in my love for Jeremy, having as much fun as possible and be so insanely grateful that I get to. I get to be alive; I get to experience life fully however I choose; I get to travel; I get to have nice things, and I get to participate.
That is what Matt would want, and I think it’ll feel a lot better if I just follow suit.
Here’s to you, baby bro. I love you.