I had a good night last night. Still, waking up this morning is STILL hard, especially when you feel like everyone in the world around you has their shit together, and yours’ feels, well, like it’s falling all apart. Still, when I open My Eyes this morning, I decide that I will be brave, even though I don’t feel that feeling so much inside. Even though everything feels hard and hurts and feels tender, tough; wounded, and well…
We take our morning walk, and get a free muffin each out of it. I eat my muffin before I drink my coffee though. I need something to do. Something to do to avoid feeling so open, so raw, so empty.
Inside of my skin.
As He departs to The Office, and I walk slowly back home, feeling-not-good-but-trying-to-feel-good all the same (or, as has been usual since the start of the year), I dread entering the apartment again, all empty and sad. Dread having to feign smile at the porter or whoever else I pass as I enter the building. Dread opening the door, wondering what washing to do next, the emptiness that ensues afterwards since I cannot read, cannot watch, cannot listen; nothing, without feeling sad.
I feel like my skin is so full with feeling, that if I let it, all of this feeling may just rip right out of me, and I’ll collapse on the floor, so I take the sofa option (the safe option) instead, lie down, and try to breathe without falling asleep. Still, I end up falling asleep (not for too long though before I am a-woken by my ever humming thoughts).
Amongst them;;;
I need to get to my computer to write. Still, feels like the hardest thing in the world to do so I order Pret instead and stuff Myself with their meatless meatball wrap, and too much fruit afterwards, which makes me feel sicker. Inside. Still, feeling comes afterwards:
“I need to write, I need to write, I need to write.”
So, I finally log off Instagram and make my way over to the desk where my laptop sits, dormant. Open it; slowly. Almost, cautious.
Open up the word document to write. Who do I think I am. My heart is hammering. Will I be able to write or not. Will the words come or not. I am hungry. I am still sad.
But, I press on.
Type the first word that comes to mind, ignoring those tiny niggling voices in my head that tell me I’m not good enough, to get back to the sofa, to rest, that it’s too much for me today: “You’d rather just lay back down again, close your eyes.”
I ignore them; press on, letting the words flow, now…
Before long, I have two full pages of words, and I am feeling the sadness ebb like a receding river tide, feeling the confidence flowing up the confluences of My Body, My Mind instead to replace it. Feel the tears coming up too, into My Own Eyes.
So this is what My Therapist meant when she told Me “to show up for Myself every day.”
I am not the voices in my head.
I Am Alice.
I Am Alice 