Poo and Roses

Yeah, so I clearly had a really bad night the night I posted last. Actually I had a really bad week. But not really, now that I think about it. That last post reflected exactly how I felt at that moment, which I'm glad that I take note of because I don't feel like THAT all the time. And while I may have intrusive thoughts, it rarely distresses me to that point.

I have realized that I have never fought for my well being as hard as I'm fighting right now. Before, I wasn't fighting at all, I was conceding. Then I'd waver back and forth. But now, recently, the intrusive thoughts and the desire to self-soothe with destructive habits have been present relentlessly. The nasty anaconda of dread that sits in my stomach and makes food look disgusting is still there, but I have to fight it and nourish myself anyway. I notice myself falling behind at work if I indulge in my urge to just forgo breakfast...

Then lunch. Well now two meals are skipped, now I gotta skip dinner to make it an even day. And because it's a Friday, I might as well call the whole weekend a wash...

No! No! No!! I don't want the headache. I need to eat. I don't like the feeling that I'm going to collapse if someone blows air at me. I need to just do it, this will pass.

The thoughts invade every aspect of my life I allow it to.
Sometimes I can't find the time to write, and when I do, it wasn't what I wanted, and I'm disappointed with it.

Who were you to think you could actually write a book. You've been back and forth with this for years now. Just give up. No one actually cares, they just like watching a train wreck and your train wrecking happens so often it's getting boring.
No one will want to read it.

NO! I have to finish this, I don't care if no one buys it , it is about finishing it. I don't care if no one wants to read what I've written, writing helps me and this will be a huge milestone in my life. This is one of the dreams I didn't give up. Even at my sickest, I still held on to this one. Finish it. Finish. You can do it, there are people reading you because they want to , not because it's a train wreck. You don't want to fight this hard and fail because you didn't try. Fail if it happens on its own, but don't make it self distruction...for once, Shannon, for once....

You don't deserve to love and be loved again. You have way too much baggage, you're broken, you're used up, you're not normal. You had your chances. Everyone will laugh at you if you ever entertain the thought of marriage, forever, family again....

Why not? Why not be happy finally? Who wants to be normal? I never thought I was anyway. I have fun. I love fun. I don't want to live for pleasing people anymore. I care about me. I care about my kids. They are happy when I'm happy. I deserve love. I have plenty of it. I can enjoy it without guilt.

These are just a few of the struggles I face, with the intrusive or unhealthy thoughts being italicized and the fire inside me trying so hard to counter it boldly.
Some days it works. Some days the bold voice isn't so bold. Sometimes it forgets its lines and I have to get creative to counter all that bad. The negative voice is only a whisper, only a hint, a suggestion sometimes, but it might as well take screaming to force it out so I can continue doing the things I planned to do that day without interruption.

This shit is hard. I'm not even gonna lie. I'm past the point of being ashamed of the demons I face I just want them to shut the hell up. As long as I still want to win, I can safely say I'm safe. It doesn't make the constant fighting less exhausting though. It doesn't mean I don't fantasize about being thin again. It doesn't mean I don't stare at my reflection and look at all the things I want to change. It doesn't mean I don't sneak looks at the calorie count on the back. It doesn't mean that I don't feel like a wuss for leaving the gym after a 30 minute workout knowing that I could have gone another hour before my body gets weak. I finally have a counter argument for everything that whispers I'm not good enough, doing enough, thin enough, perfect enough. I need to fight myself. I am my worst enemy. I am my own champion. I am my challenger. Me - not everyone else. Not the old broad at work who works so hard to get under my skin because she's perpetually miserable...please...people like her are a dime a dozen, disposable, sad, and empty and they know it. They deploy the mentality that if they aren't happy, nobody is happy. They're everywhere. I don't waste my energy arguing with them although I have been known to ruffle their feathers a bit...their attacks are absurd, amusing, and as self-serving as they are unnecessary. Not worth more than a fleeting thought.

Nope..so I know my battle has always been with myself - - my champion is fighting, and has been the whole time....except this time I can hear the enemy advancing, I can feel the vibration of swords clashing, the thunder and the rain consuming me, I can feel the wound bleeding. I can feel the ambush and the panic, I sit with it and I fight through it and it manifests itself as physical pain, and I don't take a pill. I don't have a drink. It changes like a virus into emotional pain and the cement anaconda in my gut says Im not hungry, it's uncomfortable to get out of bed, to get dressed, to ask for help. I used to imagine the cement anaconda stretched out like a line from head to tail. I'd get on the elliptical and pedal and every ten minutes a tiny bit of the bar would disappear and I'd go until I could no longer see him. I'd starve and let my body feed off the snake for nourishment until it could no longer go. And then I'd go one more day past that. I still feel those things, as real as they always were....when they resurface , I fight again. It's tiring. The swords clash, the rain pours, there is sand in my eyes and I feel all these things inside of me - - and I fight it, and I fight it, and I fight it, and it makes me tired and weak because it's all in my head - and I still have to function on the outside. I have to, because there is no other choice. And sometimes it takes days. The sun does eventually come out...and it exposes the cement anaconda for what it is - dread, anxiety, doubt , and it dissolves into sand, and I pick it up and I carry it to my garden and use it to plant beautiful seeds. I water that garden with the rain that fell and collected into my garden pail. I imagine I have fruit trees and vegetables and beautiful flowers, with colors no one thought existed until they saw my garden. And when snakes and storms and pain threaten me, I will have a beautiful place to go and stay until the sun comes out again, like it always does. I will take care of my garden and it will take care of me.

My garden is my soul. My garden has been broken down, torn apart, and fertilized with fresh shit, and there are weeds that threaten the seeds I put down. It needs the rain to grow. I don't like it, but that's how it is. I don't like constantly pulling the weeds that seem to have shot up and grown insane roots overnight. I can't just abandon my garden again and leave it barren and desolate and dying. I reaped what I sowed, which was nothing. I dug a hole and left it there to find it still empty when I returned and then I cried. I watered it with my tears and watched as a cement anaconda coiled up, filling the space, and then I blamed my garden's demise on a snake infestation.

Today my garden has seeds, and I planted them despite the rain. Like it or not, my seeds need the awful rain as much as they need the gracious sun to sprout and grow and nourish me later. The shit I had to go through is still there, serving its purpous to fertilize my crop. Fertilizer, not shit. Not wasted tears,not wasted time,not wasted life. No reason to be ashamed of being waist deep in shit when you're in a garden..surrounded and investing in the promise of new life. It's not feces anymore, it is necessary if I want to enjoy the beautiful flowers I've promised myself, or to taste the fruit of my labor. What is my other choice? Seeds that stay seeds. Potential that never develped. Little what-ifs that sit there and always promise but can't deliver.

A shitless garden will never produce beauty.

So I'll scatter my seeds and if I play my cards right I'll have the most beautiful, abundant garden, and it will take care of me because I allowed it to grow and best of all, I will share it with everyone. Some may love it there, and some may choke on the pits. I will share graciously and not worry whether or not whatever comes up is to their liking. They have their own gardens to tend to, their own holes to fill, their own weeds to pull. Their own snakes to fend off, their own seeds to reap and sow....and of course, their very own special fertilizer to make it all grow...or not.

Imagine what the world would be like if everyone fertilized their seeds. If everyone died and told their maker truthfully that they used every gift they were given. Would it be worth getting your hands dirty? Would it be worth it to sit alone through a monsoon if the weather on the other side was the most beautiful you'd ever seen? I'm not saying everyone has to have an epic fallout like I did....but it sure seems like things are on the upswing most of the time.
(even if there are some brief,yucky storms here and there)

I'll take it!!!!