comfort

                                                                                                            Purchase Street, New Bedford, MA

                                     

I've been too afraid to blog. Feeling too low and dark and not wanting to spread any of that around. And, too, not wanting to give credence to those feelings in case it made them permanent.  Here's what I wrote two weeks ago:

I feel scared. And sad.  

I can't see the beauty of the world when it's so dark over here where I am. 

I know things will turn

Turn around? Turn brighter? I don't remember what I hoped for.  And then a week later I wrote this:

Emotions come fast and strong when I don't squelch them by overeating. This is both exhilirating and terrifying.

Sitting with feelings. Sheets in a bunch, my side of the bed. Legs crossed, back hunched, gaze focused on nothing in particular. My first urge is to eat, to snack, to horde. But there's an automatic response to that now, and it's this: "That's probably not hunger you're feeling." It never is. And then I sigh because I know the next part isn't easy. 

When I started this blog, I decided that I would write as authentically as possible. And I find now that remaining silent when the going gets tough feels insincere. So here I am, trying to write.

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My mother is a student of Buddhism, and she reminded me last night that Life is Difficult, and it's Difficult because we set our hats for impermanent things.

I'll be happy when I get this anxiety under control.

I'll be content in my body when I lose just a few more pounds.

I can't seem to stop those thoughts, even while I realize their futility. So I observe the thoughts, let them pass, and go on with my day. I suppose that's what I'm doing in general these days: understanding that some times are dark and some are bright, and it's okay because that's simply how it is. How it's supposed to be. It's not an uplifting thought, but it feels rational and that, today, offers comfort.