April 12, 2011

"Unfearing Happiness"


Saved from what would have been another disaster, I think about the last six months of wasted energy—wondering, worrying, and waiting—time that would have been better spent concentrating on my new mantra: ‘love yourself,’ and acknowledging the divinity inside me. It sounds hokey, but it works. Try it: close your eyes and repeat ‘love yourself’ fifteen times. I guarantee you’ll feel a bit ameliorated.

Even today when my desire to feel something pings off the walls and back at my center, this little repetition melts chamomile calm, seeps down from my mind, and un-tenses my throat and chest.

Balancing between unloving, I was separated from my ease and peace by a tightrope connection to The Him in my life. I didn’t want to fall, so I refused to look down. Instead, I steadied my gaze to the tip of my nose and tried to be as present as possible. Of course I faltered, flashing glances to both horizons ahead and behind me, but for the most part I diligently inched toward the ‘something more’ that might have been.

Then the rope disappeared. At first I thought I broke something, but after two days of crying, I was done. I’d skinned my ego—that thing that never wants to be left, that non-presence that wants power: the last word, even though I knew there were things about him I didn’t like, want, or need. I surveyed the damage and saw I had mostly healed, proving I was never in any real danger of getting hurt.

Which makes me wonder about the stages of healing. First I was numb, then violently sad, then angry, then absolutely joyful, and now I’m over it. I even commented on one of his facebook posts, deciding that he’s a pretty cool guy, and if he wants to be friends, I’m down with that.

But getting back on that rope is no longer an option. The ifs between us are now completely platonic, which means my feet are on solid ground, and there’s no manic aliveness wobbling me about. Facing my fear of being alone has also been kind-of like falling those few feet—not as bad as I’d imagined. Gaining my land legs, the ground stopped moving, my knees no longer knock, and each step seems more aware of itself than ever before.

Stillness is a little strange; this vortex of calm after so much emotion is eerie, and I wonder if I can handle life without the adrenaline rush. Inching toward something that’s all mine must be a conscious decision because it’s much easier to divert myself with someone or something else. Truth be told, I don’t always succeed in concentrating on this lonefulness. Confession: I have turned the television on more times in the last week than I have in the last six months. Why? Good question.

I’m a little afraid I’ll find I’m not enough—that there isn’t a great reason to spend time alone with a self that isn’t as interesting or beautiful or valuable as I’ve been led to believe. And what if I fail because the stakes aren’t as high when I’m just doing for me—that without a co-dependant, my ‘everything’ is inaccessible? Worse, what if I hate myself? On the surface it seems unlikely, but the possibility is nonetheless intimidating.

Without rules, without judgmental observers, I lay on the pergo in my office; the laminate is cool against my right cheek. I’m not drunk or sad or weeping. I’m just being, just feeling—acclimating to this groundedness, this room-of-my-own-ness and the freedom that comes with it. I acknowledge my fear of almost-having everything I’ve ever dreamed of. In fact, I recognize that I’m a bit terrified, observing a part of me that wants sabotage because it keeps asking, what will I do then?

And the answer is obvious, simple, and true. I’ll make a new dream, because that’s what dreamers do.