self-love sunday: some rambles (it’s been a long week)

sleepy, per usual.

(san francisco at sun down, the other day)

my nocturnal clock is off. (or: i stayed up too late drinking whiskey in honor of st. patrick’s day but mainly in honor of one of my best friend’s birthdays).

this week has been weird. light and heavy in all moments, together. sluggish, too. i’ve spent a lot of time observing my emotions, feeling them out. simply a quiet week, peppered with overwhelming, abundant moments too intricate to explain. the best way to describe it: i am reentering consciousness.

the world looks like ireland outside my window. earlier this week fog ate into the tops of mountains, obscuring them. now clouds mix with blue sky i missed. everything is green. save for the one tree, defiant in holding yellow. i’m contemplating a cup of coffee. i’m thinking, in general.

i miss my friends. i miss sitting around smoking bowls and talking, talking, talking. i miss the closeness. i miss the connection. i miss knowing they’ll always be there. most days i keep the company of an empty house and an over-active mind. often my irrationality tells me i am slipping from friends’ consciousnesses. often i believe it. deep down i question my importance. my therapist tells me i am co-dependant and i can’t disagree. i’m still learning to appreciate my self, still searching for such self-acceptance and self-love in other people. still measuring my self-worth in the number of phone calls and texts and tips-of-the-hat i receive each week. it’s like this: fun things happen and i’ll find out about them later via stories, laugh and wonder why i am not helping tell them instead. wonder where invitations disappear to. wonder why i care.

frequently i wonder, too, “will i ever be settled?”

i think i know the answer. (i know — zoe, stop. we know. weknowweknowweknow. these thoughts are real, though. they’re not arbitrary. they’re as real as your fear of the dark or your fear of heights. let me feel. let me explore. let me process and progress as slowly as i need to. sit on your judgement because i am not judging you and your process.)

my heart feels sealed off. frozen in uncertainty, sadness, self-loathing and overwhelm. there are truths there, buried deep and fully-alive though only half-recognized. the me i want to be, the me i am, the me i see, will not come out. she’s rooted. stuck. available to only one or two people in my life.

i crave intimacy and authenticity like i do chocolate and cake and brussel sprouts (lack of such things in my life are some of the main reasons my eating disorder lives). times exist where i sit in the company of someone i love and we stumble into an opening, an invitation to speak, to pour my self out. words warm in my chest, bubble up to my throat, roll out onto my tongue, ready. i think, “this is it! it’s time! say it, say it, say it!” but i rarely do. instead i’ll swallow those truths back, slide them past my beating heart and into their caves where they’ll strip off their armor and wait for the next moment to be brave. it hurts every time.

someone told me recently, “you can’t hold all of that inside“. oh, but i do. i’m not good at asking for what i need. what i need feels like too much. so my quietness becomes my way of screaming. “i’m fine” is the biggest lie i’ve ever told.

possibly the craziest part of this crazy is this: i know my real friends love me deeply and unconditionally. i am the one who chooses to not understand, to not grasp fully what that type of love means. i am the one who nods in agreement on the outside while simultaneously rejecting any iota of love on the inside. i recognize i am generally the one keeping myself trapped and bound by fear.

my insides are all messed up. i will always be cleaning house.

i’ve frustrated and hurt a lot of people because of this persistant sadness i can’t quite figure out. i’m afraid that’s only helped distance me from my friends and my friends from me. i’ve let it swallow me entirely, isolate me fully. i’ve let it infiltrate all relationships. i feel like i’ve let a lot of people down, myself included. so it’s no surprise, really, that i struggle to talk to people. no one really knows me, truly. i won’t let them. because i fear losing everyone.

talk about irrational fears.

the good news (yes, there is some) is this: despite my negative rambling, i am getting better. i am opening up. i am slowly, slowly, shedding my fear of abandonment. the more i talk, the more i release. it’s a practice. kind of like strengthening a muscle. work it a little bit, watch it grow stronger.

i’m not sure when i will be able to separate my self-worth from my friendships but i am hopeful one day it will happen. i am hopeful one day i will see myself as my friends see me — as a whole person, not only flaws. i am hopeful one day i will freely ask for what i need without fearing judgement and complete rejection. i am hopeful one day i will be myself without apology, without wanting to be anyone else. i am hopeful that, one day, i will be okay.

this is my process.

namaste

zoe

(p.s: i wrote this in pieces this week, while floating in a weird, weird mood. today i woke up in much brighter spirits. i blame the whiskey fest and the company of one of my best friends, one i never feel shaky or questionable in front of. that and the sun is back after a week of straight rain. and i’m going on a hike!!)

i have a fucked up view of my body. aka: i have a fucked up view of myself. (until i realize: ohmygodwhocares)

most days i walk around disconnected from my body.

during my exercise compulsion/restrictive eating phase, i worried all the time about my body, about how its folds and round edges presented themselves. i observed every reflective surface. i pinched, hit, scratched. i was only my body. all the time.

when i started gaining weight, i stopped looking at my reflection so much. i started delving past surface level because i no longer connected to or liked my surface level. beneath my skin, i recognized a dimly lit soul, obscured by obsession. i detached from my physical self, took the time to reacquaint with my spiritual, emotional, and mental self. suddenly i was not just a stomach with arms, legs, hands and feet. i was a person, too.

on the off days i catch my silhouette off-guard, i react in one of two ways. on the good days, i will smile, turn one way. turn another way. strike a pose. laugh at myself and continue on with a good day. on the bad days. well. we all know how the bad days go, don’t we?

generally i cry. like i am surprised at seeing myself, truly. in my mind i look a different way. i am the smaller version of myself, the one i spent hours studying in the mirror for two years. not the heavier young woman looking back at me with empty eyes. i don’t know her. i’m scared to see myself as i am.

you know about body dysmorphia (disorder)? crude judgement call: eating disordered people have it. in a few sentences:

Often BDD co-occurs with emotional depression and anxiety, social withdrawal or social isolation. The onset of the symptoms of a mentally unhealthy preoccupation with body image occurs either in adolescence or in early adulthood, whence begins self-criticism of the personal appearance, from which develop atypical aesthetic-standards derived from the internal perceptual discrepancy between the person’s ‘actual self’ and the ‘ideal self’

oh, hey life.

i see beauty easily in other people. i see it quickly. in smiles, in eyes. in the way shoulders roll back and chests lift. i see beauty in all sizes, in all shapes.

just not in mine.

i am measured in rolls, cellulite, and stretch marks. not by my intelligence, laughter, and kindness. i don’t see what other people see. i struggle with physical compliments. whenever anyone tells me i am beautiful, i cringe. i think, “how can you see that? do you not see this stomach? these legs? these horrible arms?” other women are allowed to look like i am and be beautiful. i am not.

really though, i don’t hate my body. i hate myself. the self-hatred manifests in the mirror.

i constantly battle the beauty ideals born from magazine culture. the rational side of me understands i deserve intimacy, authenticity, happiness, and love no matter the size of my stomach. she knows people find me attractive. she knows beauty shows up in a variety of ways. she knows personality shines just as bright as physical beauty.

none of that matters though when you put all your worth into your appearance. personality doesn’t matter when you can’t shake the idea of worth being directly tied to an uber-processed, shallow idea of beauty. self-love won’t happen when you can’t get over the idea that your body isn’t right, that it needs to be smaller because you’re too big for your height, for yourself, for anyone else.

deep down, i am terrified this will be my forever. that i will never gain a positive body-image and allow life into my life. i am scared i will never love the person i am. that is more immobilizing than living forever with this eating disorder.

the best i can do?

take it one day at a time.

what do you do if and when you find yourself in this struggle?

namaste

zoe

i wrote that last night before insomnia kicked in. i wrote it before i found two beautiful blogs i spent too many hours looking through. tucked in between those virtual pages i found photos. videos.

like this one. (scroll down till you hit the video of the little boy. he is more in touch with his fantastic, female sexiness than i am at twenty-two.).

and this one. (scroll down till you hit the video of the blonde girl reciting a poem she wrote. it’s fucking brilliant and left me covered in goosebumps).

i listened to some spoken word last night, about what it means to be female, about what it means to be fat. it got me thinking, about the word fat. about femininity. about bodies.

think about what you think about when you think about fat.

what words come to your mind? what emotions? what images?

more importantly: are they negative?

america has this unhealthy obsession with fat. we care so much about the bodies of other people, about the bodies we inhabit. turn on your television and count the number of shows about fat people (TLC is a good place to start). open up magazines and tally the number of articles geared toward losing weight. better yet, go count the advertisements.

america is drowning in fat shame and fat obsession.

the weirdest part is this: fat means nothing.

i’m going to say that again:

FAT. MEANS. NOTHING.

NOTHING.

it only means what we choose to associate with it. and, unfortunately, america generally associates fat with ugly, unhealthy, abnormal, shame, and unworthy.

what right do we possess that allows us to pass judgement on the body of another person? what happens when we do do that? when we judge, we create assumptions. how do you know a heavier person is not healthy? how do you know they do not exercise or eat healthfully? the answer? you don’t. nor should you care. it’s not your body. it’s not your life. (i am saying this as much for myself as anyone else).

the image of a toned, tight, and fit person haunts every single person in western culture, whether we fight against it or not. that ideal still exists, still floats in the back of our minds, still affects how we view our body in the world. womanhood and femininity do not come in a one size fits all. we just like to pretend it does.

worshipping the idol of thin is a religion breeding contempt for diversity.

and contempt for our own beautiful selves.

after i watched those videos, after i read through quotes and surveyed pictures, i stumbled onto one thought:

i am so lucky to have this female body.

no matter what shape it takes.

because people like that little boy will never truly be a woman. transgendered females will never be biologically female like i am. this body is a gift. it is something to be celebrated, not cried over because it’s a little round. to be a woman is an amazing, sometimes overwhelming, experience. there is a reason we look different.

so, my god, zoe, stop worrying about your body. because you are not you body.

you are a living, breathing, soul with beauty your limbs can never measure.

namaste

zoe

self-love sunday: explain yourself

i lost my shit on friday.

(source)
i woke up light and lovey. calm and steady. i am due for a new pair of pants so i hauled my butt to the mall (mistake one). before i tried anything on i took a few deep breaths. i spoke to myself sweetly, said, “zoe, it doesn’t matter what size you pick up. it doesn’t mean anything.” then i picked out two pants and two dresses and took them to the dressing room (mistake two). and promptly lost my shit.

my restless, egocentric mind went insane. stole the moment to unleash hurtful thoughts. i cried and cried. i cried myself all the way to my friend’s house, where i held it together for, oh, three minutes before unravelling all over. tears did not stop. neither did the questions, the “zoe-what’s-wrong’s”. i got a lot of “it’s just clothes” type comments too. those types of comments set my anger off. because no, it’s not “just about clothes”.

i sat on that frustration for a while. until i realized:

if i ever expect anyone to understand what i am dealing with, i need to open up my mouth and my heart and explain the details.

i cannot keep complaining about how alone i am when i make no effort to let anyone understand.

friends who do not grapple with body-image issues as deeply as i do simply do not understand how clothes shopping can spark a melt-down. it’s like trying to have someone who doesn’t understand drug addiction try and understand it. to them it seems simple. “just stay away from the drugs! just don’t do it!” is the answer to them. when, obviously, it goes much deeper than a physical addition.

while we cooked dinner i brought it up. i said, “i need you to understand this isn’t just about clothes. this isn’t trivial, this isn’t superficial.” i filled her in. i opened up. i explained myself. and, you know, it turned out to be relatively easy, asking for what i needed: understanding.

i know sharing the inner workings of your mind and heart serves up vulnerability you might not think you can swallow. but know this too: your friends love you. they want to help you. there is no judgement there. just another heart wanting to know what makes yours beat, in all the best ways and all the worst ways. responses like, “it’s just about clothes” are your friends ways of not lessening your situation, but of trying to understand. if friends show frustration, know it comes out of exasperated love for you, because they don’t understand how you don’t see the beautiful, amazing person standing in front of them.

after we spoke, i felt lighter. less scared. not embarrassed. everyone deals with issues. these just happen to be mine. they’re weird, they don’t make sense, but.

there is no reason i need to hide in their shadows, trembling with shame.

namaste

zoe

so i watched demi lovato’s documentary (this one is long)

and, surprisingly, i almost cried a few times.

(source)

girl was honest. at the end i wanted to like, sit down with her and talk and talk and talk. i know MTV showed her in a specific slant but she talked candidly about issues not widely discussed (see the post before last).

she said things i related to. brought up questions i asked and continue to ask all.the.time.

her honesty tapped mine on the shoulder, said, “come on, man, just let it out.”

so.

here it goes.

(THIS IS VERY OPEN)

friends relate to the thoughts. not the extremes. explaining thought processes to their fruition (e.g: ending up over the toilet) never happens. i keep a lot under wraps for a variety of reasons. mainly because no one i know is a bi-polar bulimic with anorexic tendencies. at least outwardly, anyway. additionally, a lot of friends dismiss my worries as needing to get laid or needing to reap more gratitude. not that i disagree entirely but. that hurts. that makes me think and believe my feelings are overly dramatic and childish and not worth discussing or believing. after a while you give up on honest connection and just fucking agree, you know?

i know a lot of what i experience emotionally everyone experiences emotionally. yet, not everyone chooses to hurt themselves. not every ends up acting out those creepy things lurking around in the darkness of your self. and i really don’t want to keep pretending i am not genuinely troubled.

if i survey my twenty-two years, i can tell you this sadness did not start a mere two and a half years ago. it started in my childhood. i remember being called a cry-baby at age seven. i remember friends distancing themselves from the overly-emotional and very sensitive child, whose contradictory bouts of wild energy caused teachers to speak privately with my mom and a friend’s mom to say something like “i don’t think you should hang out with zoe”. i remember feeling awkward and uncomfortable and worthless by age nine.

i remember friends in middle school telling me i was too sad too often. one girl told me i was depressed and wanted to drag everyone down with me. which was not true. not true. i just felt a lot and was confused and wanted someone to tell me it would eventually be okay. that i would eventually be okay. after that i shut myself up. stopped spilling the secrets buried in my heart. i stopped thinking i was special enough to be heard. i sealed myself off and learned to play the role of “helpful” despite crying myself to sleep frequently. by the end of middle school, my mom asked me one day if i wanted to “see someone” (a therapist, namely). i ignored the request because there was nothing wrong.

but i remember being angry all the time. i remember crying, hating myself so much. once, i jokingly played with scissors and my wrist. i was only half-joking. (i’ve never said that to anyone)

i cried myself through the first two and a half years of high school. the self-hatred formed in my childhood carried into my teens, multiplied and manifested. i mellowed out a lot my senior year. found a group of friends who loved and accepted me. the next surge electrified me my freshman year of college (makes sense). the crying started up again. the depression.

when i read through old journals, i am struck by the deep sadness written in the pages. part adolescent angst, part deep emotion children don’t regularly feel. the words hurt me now, years later.

of course, i’ve experienced happiness, too. i’ve had numerous happy days. i’ve had a lot of people in my life who love the person i am. i cannot discount any of that. however, the heaviness of my sadness often feels extraordinary.

and totally mystifying.

because i know the extent of beauty in my life. of privledge, of love, of abundance. i want to stress too that i never asked to feel the things i feel. i never asked for the thoughts that make no sense in conjunction with the elements that make up my life.

i understand the saying “you are what you think” but, sometimes, my thoughts do not feel like my own. they creep out of shadows. become a loud sound i can’t drown out with happiness or gratitude or a good fuck. even when life goes right, i still struggle. the heaviness never lifts entirely. sadder still is how well i’ve learned to numb it out, to shrug it off and pretend like all is fine (being vulnerable is hard).

i’ve been trying not to overthink. i’ve been trying to talk myself down. but, you know, it’s like, how long can you pretend you’re okay? i can’t do that to myself anymore, deny reality.

example:

one of the syptoms of bi-polar (II) is racing thoughts, ones that make you keep late hours and develop insomnia (because the brain won’t shut up).

and right now my mind is goinggoingoing. i can’t keep my focus on one thought for very long. my heart is racing, too. i’m all panicky. jittery. i feel like i have so much energy but i haven’t slept properly in three weeks (6 am bedtime last night though i got into bed at 1) and wake up heavy and slow. i don’t really feel like i can breathe well. i’m crying, not crying. yet, i started the day over the moon happy. i wentwentwent all day. i laughed a lot. felt light.

yet.

here i am.

inching closer to midnight, exhausted in theory, but feeling incapable of sleeping.

i wrote this for a variety of reasons.

i wrote this for myself.

i wrote this because it’s okay to own your emotions and thoughts, to acknowledge them as real and worthy of discussing and i needed to prove that to myself.

i wrote this for you, sitting there, lost, unable to explain anything you think or do to anyone, even yourself.

i wrote this to show you’re never alone, even if you think you are.

namaste

zoe

(p.s: now i feel naked. metaphorically speaking.)

(p.p.s: and much lighter. talk about needing to let some stuff out, huh?)

(p.p.p.s: i really need to work on talking to people in my life i can physically touch.)

self-love sunday

the right words to start this ramble are not at my fingertips.

(me and daises yesterday in san francisco sunshine)

this week was weird, right?

filled with heavy energy. i slept in weird cycles, experienced insomnia for the better part of the week, woke up foggy every day. an underlying sadness tinted the week.

i spent hours unloading into my journal. honest thoughts. confused thoughts. too many thoughts.

and saw my truth:
i am only honest in words, in writing.

i have so much to say to so many people. so many thoughts and feelings and conversations i want to vocalize. not necessarily pleasant ones, either. but each time i gather the strength and steadiness to open my mouth, it stays closed. those inflated words deflate, fall back to their homes in my chest, and i implode silently.

i am as emotionally developed as my seventeen-year-old self.

i’m too busy being nice, good, easy, to speak my truth, to find my voice and use it. as i explained to a friend the other day: “i am going through the teenage rebellion i never had.“

(although, ironically, i was very quick to share my opinion when i was a teenager)

or, maybe, more accurately, i am going through the quarter life crisis no one talks about. either way, i am a big ball of feelings with no outlet other than my pen and paper. everything inside me is screaming for release. i can’t be afraid of how other people react anymore. it’s not a burden i need to carry. it’s not one i want to carry. this lack of sense of self has me floating int a weird, uncomfortable, shaky place. i’m running around trying to find my self in other people.

i gotta get over this. i’m not as fragile as i keep telling myself.

this week, i’m shooting for honesty.

off the page.

namaste

zoe

(p.s: remember when i mentioned phantogram the other music monday? well, give the phantogram pandora station a listen. hot damn.)

(p.p.s: i haven’t felt like blogging at all this week.)

i’m not sure about that bottle of pills

on tuesday i woke up at six for a doctors appointment i called salvation a month ago.

(photos of birds i take on long walks)

yet, even as i heard “chemical imbalance” and even when i picked up my first bottle of oblong blue pills, i did not feel saved. just skeptical. and mildly uncomfortable.

the mood swings i swing through scare me sometimes. leave me trembling underneath the question of “is this normal?” (really though, what the fuck is “normal”?)

in conversation where stories of sadness and hardship are traded, i realize how unbelievably human it is to struggle. my problems and issues shrink. i become one in a whole. we’re battling, collectively.

it’s just no one talks about it.

post-tuesday-morning-diagnosis i wandered. i walked. i smoked a bowl and sat in sunshine (because february think its spring). i breathed deep and practiced a few heart openers (got all warm-and-tingly in the chest. good signs). one thought sparked two hours of feverish writing. gentle contentment replaced heaviness. i smiled at the idea of knowing how to process.

but, as i am human, subject to an ever changing scenery of emotion, the mood shifted come nighttime. stubborn insecurities i cannot shake heated up cooled over anxiety. late-night sobs stuck to the hollow of my throat. i cried words and tears over my journal. wrote furiously into pages before occupying the land of dreamers and their dreams.

naturally, i woke up today agitated. to an alarm calling for my attention. to a lack of voice. to bitterness. to another long car ride filled with music and sadness. to a therapy appointment actually scheduled for next week. to more tears, to hands too jittery from coffee i never drink, to heart filled up with fear and loathing…

to, eventually, suddenly, nothing but pure joy.

wednesday morphed into endless laughter, seventy-something degree weather, unbounding love.

and i realized:
the more i feel, the more i release.

and i realized:
sadness is normal. crying is normal. anger is normal.

because i realized:

this is the human experience.

this is okay.

i’ve got a bottle of pills now. mood-stabalizers. if i am being honest, i will say i am scared to take them. i am scared to lose this ability to feel, something i just gained access to after years of feeling nothing. i am curious about this lost anger and misplaced sadness.

also, i’m not as scared of my feelings as i was a month ago, on the desperate day i called around for someone to grant me reprieve from my mind. i just feel more human. and, oddly, more connected to people. i’ve knocked some perspective into my life, opened up the dialogue, listened and listened and listened to friends pour their souls out because every one needs an open ear. simply focusing on the people i love and opening up to hear their frustrations has been enlightening. suddenly, i am not alone. suddenly, this isn’t all about me anymore. because it never was. we’re all going through troubles together. despite those quiet moments of deep loneliness, you are, truly, never alone.

life, pills or no pills, keeps happening.

every second i breathe, i pulse. over the course of my waking hours i am one emotion and another. i am human.

and i think i’m okay with that.

namaste

zoe

(p.s: yes, i am going to take the pills, just to see what happens. it’s an avenue i think i need to explore, if only to say, “yes” or “no”.)

things my ego gave me

i don’t remember when i got so scared.

(source)
of sharing. of speaking my truth. of life itself.

i don’t remember forfeiting my happiness. i just remember waking up one day with a vague idea of having lost something.

i don’t remember fanning out the fire of my character till it glowed so dim as to be easily forgotten.

i don’t remember when doubt crowned himself the king of all decisions.

i don’t remember embarrassment building me a house to live in, a house to never leave.

somewhere along the way, the fiery, opinionated, passionate, mover of a girl i was, (am), decided to play a really long, really difficult game of hide-and-go-seek. every time i thought i found her, it turned out i had only stumbled on the echo of her.

i used to laugh all the time. i used to crack jokes over jokes over jokes. i dipped into my weirdness openly, showcased it for friends and family and newcomers alike. i enjoyed the awkwardness, the oddities of my personality and character. i rejoiced it. i knew no one like me simply because there was no one like me.

then, i stumbled. my ego hissed at me: “no one will like you. what are you doing here? what did you just say? dear god, why did you just say what you just said?”

so i tried on pieces of personalities i liked, absorbed well received traits of others like a vortex. i worried so much and so well over things like “do they like me?” and “if i do/say/act like that he and she and all of them won’t like me anymore. they’ll think i’m weird.” the real me got scared. she hid and stayed hidden.

yesterday, i danced in an empty house for ten solid minutes, giggling like a five year old laughing the whole time. unfavorable thoughts snuck their way into the happy space i created. i stopped laughing. my ego found my self dancing freely and said, “um, do you know how stupid you look right now?”

my self faltered. stopped flailing. arms found tighter, more controlled movements. legs suddenly preferred mere shuffling over jumping and swinging. my self apologized. then, thought further, and corrected herself: “oh, fuck it.” wild limbs were wild once more.

the people i find myself admiring the most present their whole selves. all those flaws and all those beauties. they don’t apologize for who they are. they just are.

i used to be like that.

which means i can be that, again.

it means i can move out of the house embarrassment built me. it means i can coop d’etat doubt right off his throne. it means i can relight my fire, let it burn and burn. it means i can be happy again. it means i won’t be the wrong kind of scared.

it means, simply, i can be me.

again.

namaste

zoe

(p.s: thanks for your anxiety tips. using them next time i feel all kinds of uncomfortable!)

self-love sunday

sleep.

(source)
just, sleep, lovelies.

sleep and love will follow.

last night i slept for eleven and half hours. i crawled into bed at 8:30 and woke up at 9:30. sickness be gone! sleep might be the miracle i forgot all about. in the dreamy REM cycle hours, the body heals. the mind heals. when both body and mind awaken alive and alert, we navigate our lives a little easier.

sound choices come from sound minds.

so indulge in sleep. when you want to do badly by yourself, go to sleep. when your mind starts circling the pit of despair, go to sleep. often times all we really need is a good recharge. listen to your body. when you feel run down, borderline sick, edgy, anxious for no reason, sad…just sleep. often times, especially now, we forgo sleep for other things without realizing that sleep helps us do the things we truly want to do — and well.

it’s sunday. tomorrow starts the new week. sleep well tonight and start the week off on the right foot. your mind and body will thank you.

namaste

zoe

i think…

i think i spend too much time on the computer.

or, rather, in front of a screen.

i enjoy life the most while out engaging. experiencing. exploring. busy sunlight hours, peaceful moonlight hours, my ideal schedule. lately though, life’s pace has shifted. late nights lead to late mornings. early afternoon mimics a typical morning and ten p.m plays early evening for a few hours. sleep comes in the first few hours of the new day, gently releasing me an hour before noon. sleep exists in broken hours and splintered dreams. i am always tired. inside, my spirit vibrates, grows restless in its dull cage, the heavy limbs and heavy energy its nuisances, its keepers.

i am not paying much mind to self-care. the word ‘stagnant’ burns in my mind like some endlessly dying ember. stagnant routine. stagnant energy. stagnant thoughts. the spirit i mentioned? asks for something different. asks for risks. asks for yoga. asks for connection. for rest, laughter, love. but i live in hollow buildings built on old beliefs. i lock myself into rooms of ideas too full to accept any one new. i am not comfortable here, pinched between these old fears grossly inflated by their sense of importance.

for the past number of months i’ve focused so much and so hard on mentally caring for myself, tending to the emotional wounds. i forgot physical care mattered, forgot self-care stitched together many squares of fabric for its quilt. i forgot self-care included resting regularly, drinking enough water, moving appropriately. i forgot it included meditation, deep breathing, stretching.

instead, i’ve been sitting a lot. watching life instead of being in it. i am not tending to my physical self. i’ve been spending a lot of time away from home, late nights outside of my bed. my body is still catching up with the zealousness of my spirit. it feels heavy in a sense outside of weight.

this is a really long winded explanation for saying i-am-backing-away-from-the-computer-for-a-bit, simply. there is too much sluggishness circulating around my system for me to sit here, in front of a screen. it can be easy to get sucked into the blog world in favor of the real world (and the internet in general). and i need to spend a little more time caring for my whole self. so that means diving my time differently.

i was feeling so well in the early weeks of january because i was still caring for my whole self. i want to move back into that space. that felt healing. this feels…counterproductive.

namaste

zoe

sometimes, you just need a fucking hike

yesterday i woke up to sunshine and a sour mood.

probably because i showed myself complete disrespect the night before and ended up spilling tears full of self-pity.

but really, who can sit inside on a day in january when the sunshine is out? i confess, i thought about it. then i decided i needed to move, to shake off the thick funk from the previous night.

…which is when my casual hour walk turned into a spontaneous, three hour solo hike.

i live in the bay area. more specifically, i live in marin county. a lot of stereotypes bind the place in which i live. i invite you to call marin every name you see fit, but you cannot deny the beauty it sits in. the bay wraps around us, though we escape the fog san francisco disappears under. yes, i live in the suburbs, but nature lives here, too. so much nature. i live a twenty minute walk from a rambling, wide state park.

coincidentally where i ended up yesterday after a twenty-minute walk.

usually i am not incredibly spontaneous (though i love it when i am). i am much too careful. too plan-oriented (thanks mom). for the past few years i’ve been working on relaxing, on going with the flow of life instead of attempting to regiment and categorize it all. so when i saw the start of an unknown trail yesterday, i hopped on it without a second thought.

i started my walk numb and frustrated. i ended my walk-turned-hike in jubilation.

on a sunday afternoon in the dead of winter, with sunshine reaching for me in between tree branches, i lost my sadness, if only for a second. i shared the path with mountain bikers, trail runners (i did a little of this yesterday too! nothing compares to running in nature.), and hikers. i shared genuine smiles and found i could not wait to say hello to people. in the middle of an unintentional hike, i rediscovered my intention: to be happy, healthy, and in love with life.

the rest of the day filled itself with a lot of laughter, a lot of smiling, a lot of cooking (my friend and i make cookies and moroccan stew. all vegan!). what started out as a potentially shitty day turned itself around.

i think i am discovering some of the keys to sustained sanity: regular movement and a connection to nature. both things help me to be incredibly balance and satisfied. (and i know walking in nature helps open a couple of chakras!) for a long time i tried to justify not moving regularly because of how much i used to exercise. movement is something i need to be careful not to overdo. yet, at the same time, i need to trust myself a little more, believe i can be a regular mover without becoming a compulsive exerciser again. i think i can do that. i think i can do a lot of things i try to pretend i can’t.

sometimes, you just need a fucking hike to realize it.

(the tilt of the world)

namaste

zoe

(p.s: thanks for bearing with me through my ups and downs. writing really helps me reflect and release so i’m not sorry for posting such downers. i appreciate the messages and the support. so, so much.)