safety

Been a little scarce on here this week, mostly because I couldn't bring myself to actually write about what I know I HAVE to write about...because writing is all I know to do in times of great distress and discomfort. Writing is my way out from deep within. Of course, it also requires time, which has alluded me (still, and I don't even have a kid yet) and some degree of emotional investment, and frankly, I've been too busy investing in sanity to turn my attentions to something as luxurious as creative pursuits. Well, fuck it. Time to turn the tide.

I said--here? maybe not here--that my word of the year was embodiment. I thought I was referring almost exclusively to my weight loss/gain/loss/gain road, and how I believed that I could, once and for all, conquer those ruts and emerge a stronger, healthier human being. I had the knowledge, I knew the drill, I just had to inject some consistency and motivation into my veins. I did not know-how could I have known?-that I would soon be faced with some of the most intense and difficult (past) issues I've ever felt (oh and feel them I did), and they would come about as a result of our ongoing exploration into having a child. I did not know that I would be reduced to uncontrolled weeping for hours, reduced to holding my head in my hands and pulling my hair in a vain attempt at stopping the torrent of memory (and its pain-laden minions) from taking me so far out of myself that I could no longer find my way back to earth.

To go from a place where one experiences near-daily dissassociative tendencies (physically, sexually) to a place where being in one's body is not only necessary but required (pregnancy) is a leap I cannot make without first identifying some middle steps. And convincing myself that I will not die if I start allowing my body to SPEAK. There is much trauma (sexual & emotional abuse-related) hidden amid the folds and curves of this body o mine and I am an expert at making sure that it stays right where it is. I've got every tool I could possibly need at my disposal. I got my weed, I got my drink, I got my friends who will shoot the shit for hours, allowing me to talk/think about something (anything!) else but the fact that I am damaged goods, the epitome of innocence lost, Queen of the Ultimate WHY ME Pity Party. I've got a dog who will accompany me on hours-long sojourns 'round the hood wherein I'm counting my steps in a vain attempt of calling forth the Zen Buddhist in me. I've got work (productivity), which can sometimes be the salve I use to make myself feel worthy and capable of being a contributing member of my "team," but lately work has been like entering the fires of Hell, so I'm not finding much solace there.

But these tools. I've used them so long that they've lost their sheen. They still WORK but they seem so tired. I know that at some point I have to just let what comes up COME UP and not use every ounce of my power to smack it back in place again. I lasted three days this week - including the day when I was a complete wreck, that would be Monday - without succumbing to my usual modes of coping. Granted, some are better than others. For the most part, though, I'm finding that I cannot take much of the world - or, more to the point, my place in it - for very long without feeling like my skin is on fire and I'm about to rip it off. I hit a reality-of-the-situation saturation point and the next thing I know I'm reaching for the bowl or the wine glass or the mound of tortilla chips bathed in cheese.

Early on in college, my friends and I coined the term "safety meeting." Fashioned after those times when you're in a pool and the lifeguard yells out Buddy Check! and you have to find your buddy, grab hands and raise them so you can be counted, safety meetings were when we all, as a group, were required to meet at a pre-determined place, be counted, add a little something to the tray/plate that was somewhere in the vicinity, and then hang out for a little smoking session. (Yes, I went to college in the middle of nowhere and yes, we partied ALOT.) We found our terminology to be quite brilliant (of course, we were young and invincible) and I never even thought twice about it until recently. Safety.

safe·ty
–noun, plural -ties.
1. the state of being safe; freedom from the occurrence or risk of injury, danger, or loss.
2. the quality of averting or not causing injury, danger, or loss.
3. a contrivance or device to prevent injury or avert danger.
(source: Dictionary.com)

"Freedom from the occurrence or risk of injury, danger, or loss." Yep, that was about right. We were safe in our toking confab and we were made even safer by what that smoking invited--another perspective, a door out of our heads and into the stratosphere, the necessary elixir of distances. I unknowingly planted the seed of my future dependence by referring to this exercise as safety. It has been my freedom, and it has been my prison, because without it I lose my ability to escape. And if I can't escape, I have to feel. And if I have to feel, I have to deal. And I'm not yet convinced that I can. But I have to get there. How can I even think about having a kid until I do? And this is not about the smoking itself, because I have no issues with stopping that when (and if) I get pregnant and I'm not saying that I'll never smoke again after that. I'm not one who responds well to black and white anything. No, this is about being willing to stop thinking about my body as an annoying appendage to my head and start thinking about it as the glorious vessel that it is. It's the body that has carried me this far, and the body that "contains multitudes," and the body that yearns for me to help it release what it has held -- gently, carefully, deeply -- for so so long.

So. This embodiment thing. NEWSFLASH! It's not just about weight loss. It's about much much more, and though I'm scared as shit to uncover all the implications, I'm open. And willing.