Okay, new topic.

I had an energy healing session yesterday.

I thought it might be like a “reading,” with auras, and questions like, “Where does the Q name come in?”  Don’t get me wrong; I love me an insightful reading.  I told her I have a lot of autoimmune issues.  She said she could sense that about me.

It turned out to be so much new, interesting information, that I’m practically speechless.  As she asked a little bit about why I was there, what I wanted to accomplish, I, for the first time, regarded my life through a certain filter.

That filter was fear.

th1BI6FWERI was surprised I said that.  I grew up in a small town in the middle of the US, went west after college, then east for more college, and lots of other places.  Sometimes alone.  I never thought of myself as fearful in light of the challenges that presented — new cities, new customs, new people, new jobs, new schools…

But, I started kindergarten in that small town where my family and I had just moved.  All the kids seemed to be friends — and largely related.

I remember thinking when I received a sort of an icy reception, that I had to ditch myself, no offense, and do what I had to do to fit in.

This worked pretty well as time went on.  On the outside.  I had friends.  I got good grades.  I was a cheerleader eventually, played in the band, sang in the auditioned choir, had many suitors, and even gave a speech at my graduation.

I married someone I thought I could sit back and watch manage control things for us.  He was VERY good at that, in a VERY bad way.  As you know, if you’ve been here before.

When that all fell apart, all the other issues I put aside, from 6-years-old on, have come back for a second chance.  Not all at once.  More at the pace of a smoothly running deli line.

After hiding my true feelings all those years, and wearing different masks for different people and situations, the energy healer and I agreed that I now had a mess of physical manifestations on my hands — psoriasis, IBS-C, migraines, reproductive problems, weight management issues, low self-esteem, recurring depression (beginning at 9), a crazy sister (sorry sis), an estranged brother (sorry bro), super religious parents who didn’t really know me (not their fault), anger management issues, and on and on.  She told me our cells “remember” how to be liver cells, or brain cells, but they also remember our emotional paths and behave accordingly.  I think.  The phrase “quantum mechanics” was used.  At least quantum something.  It was a lot to take in.  I looked some of the stuff I couldn’t remember up on line.  It’s there.  Where have I been?

The actual healing session was shorter than planned because we talked so long.

All my body did was lie there, but my internal experience was that I was having some creative, exciting ideas, and some new insights.

She asked me a few questions.  She jostled a few body parts around.  She told me a few things my body was saying to her.  She gave me her card.  I paid her, we hugged, she told me I did great work today, and to email or text her with any questions.  I went back to my unfulfilling work.  Another issue.

I was jazzed for a couple of hours after that.  I felt better.

I am hopeful that this tool, like talk therapy, and tai chi, could really help me decide that I’m okay.   I could be myself.  My authentic self, is the buzz phrase.  I’m so trendy.  But, who the F am I?

Turns out, a pretty scared 6-year-old, who is trying to manage my grown up world from under the bed.

I’m trying to help her take steps to grow up.  I’m  here.  I can strive to be helpful.

Because ditching yourself is more than offensive, it’s dishonoring.  It depletes the faith you should have in yourself.

I can do better than that now.

 

 

 

 

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I’m back. I think. I’m back, right?

cat under dresserYes, a little, at least.

I still have the numb tongue, but it’s getting less and less, and wears off during the day.

I can get out the door in the morning.

I can navigate my new, weird boss.  That only took 4 months ; – )

Sunshine and flowers make me happy.  SOMETHING lifts my BCI.  Is that what I called it?  Check up with the Prozac pusher (and I mean that in the most respectful way) next Wednesday.

Whew…I don’t want to jump the gun, here, but…

I think I’m back.

I can’t thalk…

My tongue is thick.  And swollen.  And numb.

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It doesn’t fit on the bottom of my mouth between my teeth anymore.

It can only discern cinnamon and salt and vinegar potato chips.

I feel sick.

I don’t like this, but I’m pretty sure it goes away.  Eventually.

Prozac.  Can’t live with it.  Glad I don’t have to try to figure out how to live without it.

 

 

 

This round of depression is really freaking me out. Hurry up Prozac.

There’s no drama associated with it.  At least, closely associated with it.  That I can pinpoint or admit.

There’s always Trump.

And my far-away sick friend.

But things are fine, up close.

And yet…

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I feel like I’m quietly going mad.  I feel untethered. There’s nothing to blame it on, and several happy things to concentrate on, but…

I don’t think I’ve gone through this before without a some side of drama to blame.

That makes it a very lonely place somehow.  And numb.

When people say, “How you doing?” or “How was your weekend?” I swallow a big hot ball of…something that tastes vaguely metallic.  That could be the Prozac, though.

I stare at them, trying to figure out if I am really am standing in some other universe from them, but parallel enough to see and hear them.  I know they don’t really mean to find out if I’m doing well, or had a good weekend, at all.  But from where I’m standing, it’s such an irony.

I’m doing shitty.  I had a shitty weekend.  And the depression is stronger than the fact that I saw my college-aged daughter, went to a very cool surprise birthday party, got plenty of sleep and, whatever, things that make non-depressed people happy.  They made me happy, too, but they didn’t make me not depressed.  It’s like when people are audacious enough to keep living their lives when one of your loved ones has just died.  You want to scream at them, “Can’t you see the coffin?!  How could you ask me if I had a good weekend?  Are you blind?”

No.  They’re just being polite.  And trying to figure their own shit out.

I remember telling my daughter when she was depressed once to please hang on — to please give me a chance to be there for her — and she did.  Now I wonder how she actually accomplished that.

I had to REALLY talk myself out the door this morning.  I walked to work because I thought it might make me feel better.  It felt like a huge accomplishment, but it didn’t feel good for very long.

I can remember trying to escape my feelings at a very young age.  I’d guess 7 or 8.  I’m still doing that some 50 years later.

I’m trying to hold on.  I’m riding this line of needing to get it all out and knowing that it will sound crazy.  And worrying.  Even to me.  But I’m trying not to break the dam because, you know, I’m scared of what’s below those falls.