One post every eight months- sure, sounds good. Barbara Kingsolver said fiction is where you get to tell the truth. Well this blog is not fiction, but it is where I get to tell some of my deepest darkest truth, in the hope that some piece of it will benefit someone out there somewhere, as well as myself. My life presents as, and is these days, rather obscenely (but authentically) happy. There's a flip side to all that, as I drop in to some of the deepest recesses in my healing process. While I've come far enough in my healing to finally understand that I have some worth and deserve some happiness, to do more than just survive (not die), and that understanding is real and unshakeable, I'm just barely out of the woods. I woke from a dream the other night in which, as in my real life, I had just moved. In my real life, I've moved into a truly beautiful home and place of healing. In my dream, my new home was a skeezy hotel converted to apartments, but refinished so they looked very nice. There were beautiful new white carpets. At one point in the dream, the carpets seemed strange, and I pulled up the edge and saw that rather than actually clean out the old floor, they had just put the new carpet down over the old disgusting blood red one that still had dried shit stains all over it. Oh, says my dream, still some first chakra stuff to work on. Figured I'd better get started if I want to keep the nice new home...
A client the other day asked why I hadn't started writing my book yet, and able to come up with no good reason, I figured I should get started on that too. I chose to make my start with a regular practice of morning pages (http://juliacameronlive.com/basic-tools/morning-pages/), which are supposed to be sort of a clearing out of psychic junk to clear the channels for actual creative juices flowing, and I got a little more than I bargained for. Morning pages appear to be the Oxiclean for these particular shit stains, and the foam is not pretty. Sharing here, as my f ew minutes got very quickly to the very heart of the wounding. This is the core. (names and identifying details of people other than me changed)
"April 20th, 2015
Good morning, I feel sleepy. Less lethargic sludge in my head heart mind than there used to be, but still a lot left. This is supposed to be a “creative recovery” process, let’s see if it works. Steve asked me the other day why I haven’t started writing my book yet, good question. Bullet points, he says. Why am I always so fucking influenced by damn men. All these amazing women have suggested the practice and I’ve never done it, and a charismatic guy with control of lots of money and power (relatively anyway, or in my perception) says it and I go. In my defense, I could say he asked the right question, put it in a succinct and compelling way, and/or that I am ripe and ready to finally do it. But of course, it goes back to my abuse too, and maybe something about the larger culture as well, valuing men’s voices more. And then I bitch about there not being recognized women thinkers in philosophy. Sigh. My abuse. In group last week I said that I had realized I had loved my grandfather, maybe even been in love with him, or at least imprinted on him and our relationship as far as what love is supposed to be like. He was (I perceived) powerful and charismatic. I felt special, important, with him. We (when I was little) read Shakespeare, poetry. He said I was smart, could be the first president, my mind mattered (then had me fucked until bleeding).
(here my mind wandered to errands needed, my tasks for the day, and I stopped writing for several minutes before I could bring myself back to the present)
Oh, surprise, I am finding distractions after writing that. Anything to turn away from the page, turn away from my thoughts, turn away from my reality. Little distractions, endless other things to do. Anything but this. Anything but the burning pain and endless gaping hole that tears at the center of my being, trying to kill me, whether by quick suicide or slow soul death. Jeezus, fucking melodramatic artsy romantic bullshit, but it’s true. This is the truth at the core of my being. I almost died, he almost took my soul. But some little part of me secreted it away, this secret, this shame, and I can’t believe I’m sitting here writing this, starting to dissolve into tears, while the AT&T repairman is practically under my elbow, repairing the phone line as I sit in my porch rocking chair, Tomas chattering away at him happily. Perfect, really though, this juxtaposition of inner and outer worlds, the show must go on as always, this is how it is. Happy happy on the outside, all is well, dyingscreamingragingHELP on the inside. I don’t think I can write 3 pages of this stuff. I think I’ve been writing for 10 minutes, that was my intention, good enough for a first day start. Maybe 15 tomorrow, then it can be 20 for a practice. Let’s do like group, end on a good note, a light note. Maybe this afternoon I’ll make those bullet points, let my book start to take shape in light skeletal form. Maybe put one thing on my vision board. See if this cobweb dusting of my brain cleared room for just a little good stuff to flow forth. Let’s see."
So, since I want all this to mean something, and I realized there are 20 minutes left in the day, I'm gonna write those bullet points now, put up a piece of my vision. Sourcing in renewal, whatever that means.
A client the other day asked why I hadn't started writing my book yet, and able to come up with no good reason, I figured I should get started on that too. I chose to make my start with a regular practice of morning pages (http://juliacameronlive.com/basic-tools/morning-pages/), which are supposed to be sort of a clearing out of psychic junk to clear the channels for actual creative juices flowing, and I got a little more than I bargained for. Morning pages appear to be the Oxiclean for these particular shit stains, and the foam is not pretty. Sharing here, as my f ew minutes got very quickly to the very heart of the wounding. This is the core. (names and identifying details of people other than me changed)
"April 20th, 2015
Good morning, I feel sleepy. Less lethargic sludge in my head heart mind than there used to be, but still a lot left. This is supposed to be a “creative recovery” process, let’s see if it works. Steve asked me the other day why I haven’t started writing my book yet, good question. Bullet points, he says. Why am I always so fucking influenced by damn men. All these amazing women have suggested the practice and I’ve never done it, and a charismatic guy with control of lots of money and power (relatively anyway, or in my perception) says it and I go. In my defense, I could say he asked the right question, put it in a succinct and compelling way, and/or that I am ripe and ready to finally do it. But of course, it goes back to my abuse too, and maybe something about the larger culture as well, valuing men’s voices more. And then I bitch about there not being recognized women thinkers in philosophy. Sigh. My abuse. In group last week I said that I had realized I had loved my grandfather, maybe even been in love with him, or at least imprinted on him and our relationship as far as what love is supposed to be like. He was (I perceived) powerful and charismatic. I felt special, important, with him. We (when I was little) read Shakespeare, poetry. He said I was smart, could be the first president, my mind mattered (then had me fucked until bleeding).
(here my mind wandered to errands needed, my tasks for the day, and I stopped writing for several minutes before I could bring myself back to the present)
Oh, surprise, I am finding distractions after writing that. Anything to turn away from the page, turn away from my thoughts, turn away from my reality. Little distractions, endless other things to do. Anything but this. Anything but the burning pain and endless gaping hole that tears at the center of my being, trying to kill me, whether by quick suicide or slow soul death. Jeezus, fucking melodramatic artsy romantic bullshit, but it’s true. This is the truth at the core of my being. I almost died, he almost took my soul. But some little part of me secreted it away, this secret, this shame, and I can’t believe I’m sitting here writing this, starting to dissolve into tears, while the AT&T repairman is practically under my elbow, repairing the phone line as I sit in my porch rocking chair, Tomas chattering away at him happily. Perfect, really though, this juxtaposition of inner and outer worlds, the show must go on as always, this is how it is. Happy happy on the outside, all is well, dyingscreamingragingHELP on the inside. I don’t think I can write 3 pages of this stuff. I think I’ve been writing for 10 minutes, that was my intention, good enough for a first day start. Maybe 15 tomorrow, then it can be 20 for a practice. Let’s do like group, end on a good note, a light note. Maybe this afternoon I’ll make those bullet points, let my book start to take shape in light skeletal form. Maybe put one thing on my vision board. See if this cobweb dusting of my brain cleared room for just a little good stuff to flow forth. Let’s see."
So, since I want all this to mean something, and I realized there are 20 minutes left in the day, I'm gonna write those bullet points now, put up a piece of my vision. Sourcing in renewal, whatever that means.