The door to the ceremonial maloka at my favorite Amazon Ayahuasca lodge
I’m in a blazing state of judgment, trying desperately to drown out the 592-piece orchestra of emotions that have flared up in my resilient and resistant little self. My ego (all egos?) is all of 8 years old, so she’s shutting down into a “I can’t hear you I can’t hear you” little tirade.
But the other piece of me – the core, the heart, the wise old sage – she’s got her eyes in a northerly gaze.
I’m trying. I’m really fucking trying – to live a spiritual life, to be a shockingly honest person, to heal every bloody wound and to give the world all it deserves. But tonight is a breakdown. There are no obvious circumstances to trigger such chaos – at least to an outside observer. I know what this is about, and yet I still don’ want to feel it.
First, let’s get the particulars out of the way.
I feel -
Very, very hurt. Earth-shatteringly solitary / abandoned / diminished. Absolutely disgusted by my body, the state I’ve allowed myself to fall into. Rage for the lies I’ve told myself and others. Massive resistance to facing the music.
I know better, on all accounts. I’m usually so gentle with myself these days. So forgiving, so quick to see the positives. I don’t know where this came from and yet. . .I know where this came from. I always know, and that, too, drives me insane. Yeah, I miss the victim days. It used to be so easy.
Joyful, cheery, strong. Grateful for this incredible life I have. That’s who I am – who I want to always always always experience. I am still slow to accept that I am also someone who has emotions, and breakdowns, and that ugly nasty word I don’t even like to see – Anger. Why the damn dichotomy? How is it I can love so sincerely the emotive, healing process – and nurture others with incredible joy as they navigate their way through the pain – and yet have such judgment for the same process in myself?
I’d really like to shutdown right now. The profundity of it all is scaring me to pieces. I wrote my Guru just two days ago and asked for the next round of healing. I asked for this. And now I want to shove it back into the hole from which it came.
I’m feeling broke, powerless, needy, and lost. All lies, by the way, but somehow the illusion has a hold of me. I even watched a horribly negative “expose” on TV this eve as I powered my way through the cardio workout at the gym. I never indulge in that crap anymore, and yet there I was, gasping at some teenage girl’s gang rape account, feeding into the negativity. I caught myself and quickly switched back to my iPod, but the damage was done. It pushed me farther in.
Poetic, I guess, because it is helping me get here – a place of feeling. A place I’ve turned away from. . .countless times. Countless.
So. Much. Magic. I see it, I’m in the experience of it, but when I’m overwhelmed with tears and pain and fear and rage and total desperation – it’s hard to know how to breathe, let alone smile and feel grateful. I am disgusted that I feel this way, I’ll be honest. This is the part of spiritual evolution that I dislike the most. I hear myself sob and it makes me cringe. And of course I can’t drink it away, I can take a tab of E and escape, I can’t do anything but wallow now – this lovely little reality I’ve created. All the outlets are gone.
That is, in part, why I’m angry. I guess I didn’t expect the clean / sober / fully conscious road to be littered with such cosmic breakdowns. But without anything to numb the uprising, it stands to reason that the emotions would have so much more Power. I haven’t felt this kind of freakout for – well, years. Since I used to sit around dreaming about suicide all day, drinking and drugging and doing whatever I could to shut out the pain. Doing whatever I could.
Now, I do whatever I can to confront these demons. Despite the protests. They’re stronger than I ever imagined. I don’t even understand the sources. I do and I don’t and it doesn’t matter anyway – I feel them. They’re so blindingly real.
That’s why I’m here, writing To be honest. To release a layer or four. To try and make sense of what I already know. I know. But I’m also supposed to feel. There’s no other way out of the horrendous illusion. Why it makes me so angry, so blind with fear, so quick to throw up a thousand No Thank You Walls. . .
So I’ll go cry and release and break shit and yell and throw a fitful tantrum. And then I’ll laugh about it and wonder why I make things so much more challenging than they need to be.
The next time you feel the tears coming on, for heaven’s sake, just go there. It’s the only way out of the madness.
“No ones picking up the phone
Guess its me and me
And this little masochist
Shes ready to confess
All the things that I never thought
That she could feel.”
-Tori Amos, Hey Jupiter
