It's a wash

"when your past revisits"

Sunday was a day for the books. I woke up and knew I had been hit by something hard. Half way through the day George asked me if I thought it was because of father’s day. I shook my head quietly. Thirty one years is more than enough time to work through losing someone from suicide, even if it is your father on father’s day. It felt like every misgiving, misstep, and misunderstanding from my past had revisited, decidedly to stay. It felt like the usual suspect in my life’s story, one step forward, two steps back.

I haven’t been down and out like that for a bit. I forgot the heavy comatose feeling it brings and the ideology that you are not up for what life has brought you. I hadn’t felt so lifeless and unworthy like that since I closed the shop without a rudder to point me in the right direction. Hours into the morning I gave up and accepted that the bright beautiful Sunday was a wash and instead of being out in my gardens or spending the day at the beach I was confined to our couch, watching endless episodes of the Voice trying to drown out the negative self talk that was nipping at my own heels.

There’s a thought that as we evolve as human beings, we must do the work. The work being our shadow work, the stuff in our own lifetimes and that of our ancestors that was pushed down deep instead of being dealt with in the moment. We all have shadows of ourself, the underbelly which acts as an anchor holding us true to all of our parts. We put on a pretty face for the public. We post our beautiful family moments, exotic adventures, and triumphant victories while leaving our misery and stagnation off social media away from judgement and comparison. We continue to put our best foot forward at our own expense, negating the need to accept ourselves wholly without condemnation and marginalization. We are both dark and light. We have a spectrum of emotions and experiences as individuals and failing to sit with our shit only digs our holes deeper.

I sat in my hole Sunday and became reacquainted with all of my things that I haven’t full dealt with yet. I mulled over my dad’s decision to take over his own life, I rewatched all the times I have self sabotaged in my relationships owning defeat before the fight to survive was over. They are kind of one of the same aren’t they? I’ve been jumping ship early not being able to bear the pain of the experience, unable to know that storm clouds eventually wash out to sea. I listened as my ego reminded me of all the ways I am less than others and took its jabs about how my future is most likely more of the same. The Voice kept showcasing talented individuals stepping out of their comfort zone to be more than just the same old same old. While I lay low for the day they continued to aim high and reach beyond the stars to change their lives.

A day is twenty four hours no matter how it drags on or speeds by. Eventually the day ends and you find yourself with a do-over, waking up with fresh choices and a new way to approach your life. Sleep washes over you and gives you a blank slate to reposition your emotions, thoughts, and actions. I woke up released from the anchor that kept me chained to the couch. Father’s Day had passed, thirty one times to be exact, and I had survived another day. It’s funny both the girls reached out to me unexpectedly. Anna always gets a feeling when I sink low. This time I was honest with her, I wanted her to know that not every day is peachy keen for all of us. I shared that I knew I had some work still left to do and that I’m willing to do it. Libby called. She is stronger than most. I spilled only one bean, not wanting to her to feel uncomfortable. I only confided that I had regrets about some of the jobs I had turned down and out of the mouth of babes came, “you regret saying no to something that wasn’t right for you in the moment?”

She caught me off guard. She was right. All we have is the moment and if something doesn’t feel right, then it’s not right.

We’ve been conditioned to thrive in a world that defines success as accumulating money and power at all costs. I’m realizing more and more each day that ideology makes me nauseous and turns me inside out. While I chased that definition of success for most of my life, suddenly its meaning isn’t sitting right. Even here, writing for likes and new subscribers seems more of the same. When can success be defined by passion and purpose? When can filling our own skin become enough?

We all need to eat and have a safe space to lay are head at night. We all have desires and wants. Where is the middle ground where we can chase our dreams with dignity while having respect for others doing the same? How can we get to a time and place where we are no longer defined by our traumas and instead are celebrating our existence, no matter who we are?

(a picture of my father before I was born, long before)