I am speeding this morning. And it’s not good.
I joined a running group. I’m supposed to do a run on my own today. I woke up at 10:30 this morning which has put me behind for my day. I had a fitful sleep last night. I was restless and awake on and off; my “parts,” young and old seemed to be having a time of it — scared, remembering, reliving, angry. And so I slept in.
When I woke up, lots of things were in my head, in my body, to write about on my blog. (That’s not always the way; sometimes, like yesterday, there’s little that wants to be written.) But I started to think about writing for others primarily instead of writing for myself. And that’s not good.
And then there’s the issue of my house and the cleaning and laundry I’d hoped would be done today. And thoughts of what others would think if they showed up. My judgements about myself.
And thoughts not only about how I want to present myself to others, but about how I want to be in the world.
But the truth is, the truth is, I AM.
I am who I am in this moment and that’s who I need to be, for me. Especially in this time of healing from childhood abuse, of healing from dissociation, I need to be who, what, I am in this moment. Not who or what I want to be. Not who or what someone else wants me to be, or who I think they want me to be. But who I am, really, right now.
My whole life has been about lying about that. From a young age I was conditioned to abandon myself. So much so that I lost myself, completely forgot who I was. So much so that I spent a lot of my life racing, literally racing, around, “doing” things, all the while holding my breath, keeping myself down. Or keeping parts of me, large parts of me down, cut off, dead, at the bottom of the pool while the rest of me swam furiously on the surface trying to keep up, trying to impress, trying to survive.