Pirates have definitely taken over in the last 24 hours. Maybe they’ll get bored soon and leave. Sometimes I am entranced by my pain. Today, not so much.
I had intended to write about my vacation last week in the Sonoran Desert – Tucson. See my lovely picture of a crested Saguaro cactus!
Instead this post will likely be rambling and disjointed. Jumping to the point– I think is the point is I don’t know how to ask for help. Or I just refuse to ask for help. Or I just can’t ask for help. This realization has been coming toward me for some time, but two days ago a coach, while talking about shamanism, had reminded me that to change and create a new identity, I would have to let go of an identity. Maybe more than one would have to go. I was ok with that. I felt really good after my call with her and eager to explore the shamanic ideas and do the homework she gave me. I thought I was just going to write a list on a piece of paper. Wham! Thanks, Universe!!
Yesterday afternoon I broke my months-long abstinence. Driving to work I had a flash of thought, “I’ll have to give up my eating to be a shaman.” Then I thought no more about that. After a lunch meeting, we had several cookies left over. When I took them to the break room, I saw that another meeting had leftover cookies, too. Cookiepalooza! I went to my desk without a cookie, but then the thought grabbed me. I want a cookie. [Insert lots of if-onlys here, but especially, if I had waited only a few more minutes, others would have taken them all.] I went to the break room and wrapped a paper towel around two cookies. Back at my desk I ate them. They did not taste good. Like sand with weak chocolate. Once they hit my stomach, nausea rose and then dizziness. I went back for two more, wrapped in another paper towel (hiding, yes). Then once more, for the last one. This must be what a zombie feels like. Mindless destruction.
Now the shame was in charge. I didn’t call anyone, but just listened to my voices harass me. I kept thinking no one would know. I don’t have to tell anyone. I wanted to inflict pain on myself for distraction (this is why people cut). I went home and paced around the house wanting to hit something, including my head against the wall. Energy roiled chaotically. A day later, I ask myself, “Why didn’t you call anyone? Why didn’t you even think of it?” I don’t know.
Last night, I dreamed I was climbing on a sandy, rocky path and I had to go up then down, and then switchback. I rusted iron railing was hanging upside down from the rocks and couldn’t be used. Somehow I jumped down and now I’m on a corner looking at a fenced in, overgrown compound. I ask the guard how to get in and he says I can’t get in this way, I have to go back around and I don’t which way to go and I see young people running up and down the path like it’s easy. I know I left a shopping basket somewhere back on a hill and now there’s no way to get back to it.
When I wake up, my arm hurts. I see some blood on the sheets and deep scratches from my cat high up on my arm. I have no idea how she did that to me in my sleep. I go into the kitchen and see the snow on the ground from last night. Now I’m angry about the weather. Wham! Thanks, Universe!
I was aware enough now to prod myself to call someone even though I was ashamed I had broken my abstinence. However, no one I called was available. I do know that if I had kept calling, someone would have been available. In just a few calls I had confirmed my beliefs that a) I am a helper, not a helpee, and b) Who am I going to call? No one can help me. Oh, yeah, and c) I can’t be a shaman because I am not perfect and can’t even use the tools I know I have for myself to deal with a chocolate chip cookie.
This amount of crying and self-flagellation has been exhausting.
Some growth: damn rigorous honesty got me to admit this.