I've had several conversations with folks lately about story. Their story. My story. Stories in movies, tv, books, blogs, news. About the importance or lack thereof of dropping personal story. Whether it means anything, or if it's even possible. I don't think it is. Possible, that is, to drop it. I think that it drops you. At least that's been my experience.
At the tail end of one of those huge emotional burnings, those ego bonfires where the me that I think is me but of course doesn't exist but because I believe it does it hurts most excruciatingly, I've had a reoccurring image. Not knowing what else to do, either to stop the burning or to make the fires burn hotter and get the whole thing over with quicker, I picture myself going out on the front lawn and laying down, and not getting up. I've no clue what this means, and I've done enough following through on this sort of stuff to know it doesn't lead anywhere, that it's the symbology, the metaphor of it that is what is triggering in my brain.
But I'm not in a time of one of those wildfire emotional burnings right now. This is more of a targeted burn, specifically torching an area that is too overgrown and has to go, burned down to the soil, so that new things can take root and bloom.
What's burning is addiction. To food. And to sadness. The food is about comfort, and nurturing. The sadness is around Poor Me, and why people should be nice to me, and not mean. And a huge part of why both of them are ridiculously difficult to burn out, is that their roots are entwined in survival modes. We need food. We need other people's assistance. Maybe some people can be airatarians, or live deep in the middle of a forest (if such a forest even exists anymore) but those twenty-three people? I'm not one of them.
So every day I face it. This morning I turned down a Hardees Break*fast Bowl in favor of mint tea and a nut and fruit bar. Last night I ate half a bag of vinegar and salt chips. Yesterday for lunch I had a green salad with seeds and nuts and veggies and homemade carrot miso dressing. And then on the way back to work I got a bag of peanut M & *M.
The hard part is facing it and walking away. But the really hard part is facing when I don't walk away, when I find myself maxed out with a titillating combo of excruciating back pain and worked nerves from listening to a certain Barnacle screech because really she just wants to run around and play. And the thrumming in my brain for serotonin wins and I find myself hoovering up a cadbury creme egg or pillowy millet bread or Tequila Weasel.
It's no different than anything other folks face in their lives. What's different is that I've come to understand the futility of forcing my way through this, attempting to browbeat myself for noshing or shaming myself for having a dinner that consists of more than miso soup. The only thing I can do right now is to be as gentle as I can, walk myself through the feelings and pain when I can, and be as nurturing with the cleanup, the digestive pain and sugar crash and puffy face when I can't.
Because my story is still here . . . still playing itself out. The health issues. Writing the novel. Taking care of kitties. What else can be done other than let it? To live it as it unfolds?
Onward. Further. Even when it appears that I'm moving backwards . . .