F*CK NORMAL

I forgave myself today – July 29th of (the weirdest year ever) 2024. I wrote this as I sat, for just a moment, in the aftermath of a great emotional burst of spiritual energy as it faded into the normality of the day. “I have to write this down”, I thought to myself. “I want to explain what occurred while I start to come down from this high”…

I had a plan – start writing the next great American novel that will receive enough money to splurge on my family… and FINALLY be worthy! I sat there, on my bed with all necessities within arm’s reach. Encircling me like a fan. In preparation, I retrieved my favorite pens, notebooks and lapdesk. I even brought snacks! The vibe was set with some ‘Productivity Playlist’ on YouTube and I was in the perfect mindset to begin the obsession about to unfold. As I sat there, posed with pillows as support, I began writing…

The date. “Easy”, I thought triumphantly.

The title. Rare. Patting myself on the back for thinking of it earlier today.

And that was it.

That’s all I had. Nothing. I mean, I have towers of notebooks in the next room falling over, full of ideas for… everything… Ideas I’ve been carrying around with me since, I was a kid. Short stories, chapters and titles that are too good to be forgotten. Hundreds of sticky-pads full of notes. Projects, suggestions, and business proposals all scribbled hastily on paper towels, old folders, behind pictures worth keeping…but I couldn’t write down a single thing. I watched my hand jolt 6-7 times, and after my pen touched the paper three separate times, I ripped it out, crumbled it up and victoriously threw it outside of my self-made utility arc. Stupid paper was unworthy of anymore scribbles! I once again, grabbed a new page and wrote the date:

07/29/2024…and then nothing.

Taking a deep breath, I very controllably closed my notebook, straightened it on my lap desk and set my pen perpendicular to it with a quick, crisp *click*. I straightened my spine and started tapping my fingers on the desk intermittently as the therapist taught me last week. Left, Right…Left, Right.. “F*CK!” I screamed silently to myself, “You are so f*cking stupid. You can’t even keep a rhythm… you can’t do anything right! UGH!!”, I grunt aloud, trying to stop the endless stream of berating about to ensue. I grabbed the joint – prepared and ready for this upcoming writing marathon – and lit it. I watched the tip ignite and pondered the flame’s brilliance for a little too long, before inhaling gently. I closed my eyes as I exhaled and kept them shut as my practiced hand raised it to my lips again. This time, as I exhale, I think gentler to myself. I settle more into the pillows and sink deeper into the bed. I take one last hit, and carefully place the substantially smaller joint on my nightstand. I remove my lapdesk from the bed, and push everything, book and all, outside my arc. With one final adjustment, I found myself laying flat on my back. After a few silent beats, I think, “This is what safe feels like”, and for once I allow tears to run down my cheeks. For once, in my entire 41 years of living, I laid in my OWN bed, listening to weird binaural beats on my OWN t.v., in my OWN house, that is FINALLY full of peace.

“You made it”, I croaked out, quietly into the pillow I was hugging.

I continued to hug that pillow and speechlessly sobbed into it. I layed there, exposed and vulnerable and fell into an…idk…dreamstate? Far inside my brain, I could image a line of females of all different ages and stages of life. Everyone of them, me. One by one, I ‘transferred’ my hug from the pillow to them. I told each version of myself how sorry I was for hating them. For thinking they were weak, and forgiving them for doing what they had to do to survive. Somehow, while is this trance, the pillow became a substitute for my other selves. As each girl manifested in my mind, I wiped the tears from their beautiful brown/green, round eyes. The infant, the little girl, the teenager, the young woman, the young and the mature mother, the shamed me, the proud me… all the versions that have sustained me, helped me, hurt me. All the versions that defended me, kept me safe, and all the guilt-laden ones filled with regret. I hugged those hurt versions of me and the happy ones. Ladies with tears strongly holding at the brim and those who actively wanted to kill me. I cradled the infant me, and helped the 20 year old me give birth. Then I took it further, and I remembered what it was like to hug my Grandma, and I broke in my Grandpa’s embrace.

The emotions eventually became too intense and I had to bring myself back to reality…slowly…gradually. Just as the various yoga teachers have taught me during sporadict spurts of exercise commitments! “Breath”, I squeaked to myself, “Slowly. Reconnect. Start with your toes. Feel your breaths”…One final hug was required before I left this space. The 40 year old me. The version who got us to this safe spot. The one who decided to change. The one who fought and sacrificed everyone and everything to be right here. This Phoenix continued to fight for therapy. This Phoenix took all those f*cking prescriptions every day, and this Phoenix is the one who fell apart and beg for help.

“I have us now”, I whispered softly into the pillow as I emerged back into consciousness, and immediately drowned myself in a fresh bought of tears.

Tears of forgiveness.

Tears of relief.

Tears of joy

Tears of release.

Exposed,

Nix