Day three of a green smoothie fast. Only feeling moderately sick today. But yesterday? Yesterday I thought that I was gonna die. Remember Redd Foxx staggering around and hollering: It's the big one, Elizabeth! I'm coming to join ya!? That was me, Monday night through Tuesday morning. Only minus the laugh track. Though the kitties did appear to be squeeking their support.
It just blows. It does. It hurts. It just does. But my choice is: pain now with the possibility of less or maybe even no pain later. Or pain pain pain that will most likely continue to ramp up until something crazy happens, like my pancreas blows a tire, or my colon throws a rod, or my brain slowly takes on water and capsizes, or, okay, I'll stop.
It could be worse. I spent the past few weeks weeding things out, whittling them down. Slowly shifted from leaded to decaf so that when I stopped drinking coffee on Saturday, the headache wasn't monumental. I cut out the millet bread, bagels, and rolls that I was eating so that the emotional addiction to bread would be easier to face when the other weirdnesses that come with a fast kick in.
I have to confess though. I've cheated. With collards. I actually made collards on Monday night and doused them with some hot sauce. And then I ate a cookie. A gluten free cookie. A single cookie with organic brown sugar. And I got sicker than I have ever been with this stuff. (See Redd Foxx reference above). I woke up a half dozen times times during the night in agony, all sweaty headed and bug eyed, feeling as if my guts were being liquified by some unholy combination of capsaicin, sugar, and fava bean flour.
And the emotional componant? Oh good lord, the feeeeeelings. Dread. Fear. Horror. Dread. Sadess. Fear. Dread. Fear. Fear. Fear.
And what about? My mother.
I don't write much about my blood family. And I don't because it's awful and f*cked up and mean and sad and still mostly unresolved. With the exception of my sister, who I only see about once every other month or so, I refuse to see any of them. I won't answer the phone or door. I don't talk about them. But the ghosts of them? The tendrils of unprocessed past? Alive and well and wreaking havoc in my guts.
There is nothing to be done to fix anything, of course, or solve anything, or make peace with anyone. I came to a very clear realization about them a couple of years ago: they like the way they live and what they do, and they will never change or even admit what they do. And so the only way out is to let it all go, let them all go. Period.
I can't tell you how many dozens and dozens of posts I've begun about all this stuff, only to leave them unfinished, and unpublished. I do not want to write about this stuff. For a lot of reasons. But because writing is my main form of autolysis, I have to. But the trick is to write about it in the way that clears it, not in a way that keeps it alive. And I'm not quite there yet.
But it's coming up, I can feel it moving, like how you feel right before you throw up. And there are horrible things clanging around in there- rage, violence, absolute despair. But the razor's edge of it is to see it all, really allow consciousness to open up and see it all, but without buying into it, without letting it take me over, possess me with its fear and shame and anger.
That's about all I've got right now. My body is shaking as it goes through detox. My energy is trippy and fragile as insulin and seratonin, liver and pancreas, nervous system and neuron connections in the brain all begin to sort themselves out now that the energy of battling "food" has been freed up.
I tried to make this light and funny, but I couldn't sustain it. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow my sense of hilarity about the whole dang thing will resurface. But it ain't happening in this moment. Inthis moment I feel like f*cking hell. But it could be worse. And I'm grateful for this moment. This one right now, as funky as it is. Because I trust that what is happening isn't punishment, I haven't done anything wrong. I did my best for as long as I could, and it was enough, and then it wasn't enough, and now the gig is up.
Enlightenment? Human Adulthood? Mental illness?
I don't know. None of us know. And believing, pretending we do is how the delusion stays in place. And maybe you're as sick of delusion, of bullsh*tting about what's true and what's not as I am. Literally.
How funny is it that we're all in this together, and yet every single one of us is alone?