It's easy for me to give myself grief for still not regaining vibrant health. For the ridiculous amount of excess fat. For the back pain. The lack of consistant exercise. It's been a long ragged struggle the past few years, and so often it seems to get down to the place where all I can see is that I'm a comfort addict with no willpower. And there's truth in that. But I got a hit last night of something, and in reaction to it, I wrote on the bathroom mirror, in lipstick no less.
I've felt this several times, but last night I GOT IT. It was like I was trying to take flight with a fifty pound weight attached to my belly. The experience of it, that moment of total clarity of the reality of it felt just terrible, like being trapped, caged in fat. But even as I stood there, feeling the truth of it, the weight I drag around with me, I knew that the awareness of it would pass, and that there was nothing I could do about it. I ran to the bathroom, scavanged through drawers for makeup, found a tube of lip tint, and wrote:
And then I went and ate four large sesame rye crackers with olive oil butter.
I keep thinking it's about the food. I keep trying to manage the food. No Nachos! I scream at myself. Back away from the millet toast, muthaf*cker! I buy organic produce. Faithfully spend a half hour each morning making my gallon of green smoothie in the pre-dawn light. I swear I won't go to the coop and buy cake, and then I go buy cake, convincing myself that at least it's gluten free, and made with organic ingredients. I make roasted broccoli for dinner. Then make a baked potato too and smother it in sour cream and salsa.
But it's not about the food. What I got last night is it's not about the food. It's about the fear and pain, that wall I hit where all I know is that I want to sit down with a book or a tv show and eat something yummy. It's the great comforter, and there's simply nothing else in my world anymore that is simple and straightforward and comforting like food is. And although I have the intellectual knowledge that my body doesn't want anything much other than green smoothies, in the moment, I can't make the jump from addiction to reality.
It's Groundhog Day every day in relation to food. During the week I eat because Hiveworld is Hiveworld and I don't want to work in this environment with these folks anymore and so I focus on food instead. On the weekends I eat because I'm free to do what I want, and what I want to do is cook and eat delcious healthy meals.
But it's not about the food. It's about the feelings. And I absolutely do not know what to do. It doesn't do any good to keep hassling myself, or leaving messages for myself, or trying to get myself to do anything. In the moment, it won't matter. In the moment, my mind is not my own, and the choice gets made based on something else.
And of course, no one can help. This thing I crossed over a few years ago means no one can tell me what to do (because it won't translate). I can get a session that'll have energy flowing along my spine again, or get a soul retrieval via telephone from a shaman in California, or an email from an Enlightened Guy, and they help, but only in a kind of buying-me-some-time kind of way. This portion of the Waking Up program is solo. It's a hard transition to make, but once it's done, it's done. There's no going back to turning over power to someone else. (Of course, you never know where the next nugget of Next is going to come from. But be assured that it's very rare for two nuggets to be coughed up from the same source. In fact I've seen the opposite, though this is most likely simply to keep me from getting even a tiny bit attached to anyone or anything.)
And things are better. Way better than a year ago. My joints no longer ache. There's no more stomach anguish in the middle of the night. Even the back pain is down to a minimal level. But the imbalance isn't cured. The symptoms have been turned way down. But the root cause is still diseased. Something inside isn't lined up correctly. Something is off. I can feel it. In my body. In my mind. And I've no idea how to get to it. No idea how to set it right. Because it's so deep, so intrinsic to who I think I am, it would be like pulling out a hacksaw and removing a leg.
Of course this gruesome image isn't true. But it is. That's the hilarious part. It's no different than any other portion of Waking Up. The leg is killing me, but there is no leg. Just walking around the wall, banging on doors and windows, still can't get in, refuse to give up, walk, walk, walk, bang, bang, holler, holler. Nothing.
Because on this side of the wall, I see a wall. On the other side, I'll laugh as I get there never was a wall.
Nothing to do but pray.
I do a lot of praying these days.