just a glorified excuse … – a Reassessment 6 Years On

just a glorified excuse … – a Reassessment 6 Years On

JUNE 1, 2010 – the original post. 

 — I wrote this post 6 years ago, when I was sick. I had no children yet, and I hadn’t yet attempted to unpack the assumptions I had ruthlessly made about myself and about the function of ‘emptiness’. It’s a rather glorious thing now though – I can read this back, a passive observer, and see the wisdom so chocked by the fear and intimacy. This post is taking another look at the words I wrote back then … an attempt to re-create a glorious realization, if you like, in place of  a glorified excuse.

I have been recently reading a poetic yet ‘self help’ formed book called “A million little pieces” by James Frey.

He is a seriously fucked up addict – alcohol, crack, glue… he is mentally and physically ill and looking down the barrel of a life spent in jail or dead when he is taken to a rehabilitation clinic.

In it he talks about getting better from addiction through AA meetings and seeking a higher power, and he comments that they are never really recovered they have just filled the void of their addiction with a new one – strip away their meetings and their God and their Dogma and they are back where they started – addicts needing to fill themselves until they kill what is on the inside.

“though the people in (the testimonials) are no longer drinking and doing drugs, they’re still living with the obsession. Though they have achieved sobriety, their lives are based on avoidance, discussion and vilification of the chemicals they once needed and loved. Though they function as human beings, they function because of their Meetings and their Dogma and their God. Take away their Meetings and their Dogma and they have nothing. Take them away and they are back where they started. They have an addiction.” James Frey – A Million little Pieces 91-92

I so relate to this  – I think that my whole life I have had this huge gaping hole in me  – in my heart. and I have fought to fill it with everything since early childhood, running races, school – excellence excellence excellence, boys, booze – more more more, writing, drugs – forget forget forget … but nothing has filled the gap quite like anorexia….for a while.

Yet, at the same time – it has only ripped the hole further, made it into a gaping, gasping fucking black hole in my universe that now there is no hope of repair. and there is no way to fix it so I might as well stretch it – grab hold of the corners of it’s depth and rip violence until I am completely overwhelmed, and I become yet a hole in the universe that

people see through and people don’t touch and I don’t feel.

 — What happens when we discover so soon that there is no permanence – that the self is always going to remain illusive? I was so desperate then to un-see this. To grab onto something, not yet knowing that the transparency and the void that I was channeling were not nothingness or exclusive to ‘me’ – they were the truths that would one day set me free. Correction: Could one day set me free.

And if I was to go to some rehab  – be given food, and therapy and blood tests as my Dogma – and be made to get what they call on paper with all their glorified excuses, ‘better’ – the hole would still be there – menacing and resilient, and I would live my life searching in vein for something else to fill it, something else to quieten the reverberating echoes it creates inside my mind. crushing me.

deafening.

I hear things in its emptiness, and sometimes the emptiness creates a false sense of purity and security. Be empty, be nil and fear not, as you feel not.

the most common misconception of human nature is that we can change and manipulate our minds and bodies so much so that we can be someone else.

 — I still love this line, and I think it is important. This ‘being someone else’ – making ourselves new, is not only so desperately sought in our society – its also taught to us from babes .. the American Dream, the capitalist success …. The family man … the feminist narrative … all of it teaches us that we need to be better. That we need to want more and that progress, PROGRESS, is what will drive life. The fuel of self.

No self man. No self.

Someone we admire. Just like ‘them’ or Just like ‘her’. In some ways, our biggest fall from Grace is in our constant dissatisfaction with ourselves and our obsession to present to the world these phony outward facades. So much so that we have lost trust in those around us, for who knows what face, what words, lurk beneath the surface smile. I could go on about this forever, not to mention the fallout that has followed seeing us hide among technology and materials, anywhere void of real human emotions and expectations ( Facebook, cell phones… alcohol…) in fear of what being open to the world and its truths may bring. Love is toned down, so that it becomes  mere obligation to one another  – gone are the days of Shakespearean romance and holistic need.

Reality – one day we will realize that we are the same person we were to start with. and all this time, all these years, we have wasted – searching with broken wings for something that was never to be. We will wallow in bitter regret, pining after our stolen youth and our wasted fervor – as the truth actualizes itself.

 — I was so close. re-edit : “one day we will realize that we are no one person. And all this time, all these years we were searching for one self to adhere to our souls, we have been enlightened all along – searching with a winged promise that all we need is right here. We will sigh with a little regret, after the illusion of stolen youth and wasted fervour – but the truth will actualize itself. And we’re free.”

If only we had accepted ourselves – and worked within the mold to carve a life  – then, maybe, it would have been worth living. Then maybe, the regrets would cease and the pain would live a little further from the heart. And this pungent odor of irony and mockery would not poison our current state

I have hollowed myself to match the galloping emptiness that haunts my every breath. I have stopped trying to be whole, and rather, embraced nothingness and in-completion.

 — Keep embracing Sian. It’s the secret. The wholeness will not nourish.

Does it work? Do I feel I have mastered the art of escape from the Human Tragedy?

No.

 — No. NO. But I will. I will.

 

Stop the Flashing Lights

I still get these, these … flashing lights. Something deep in my neural pathways that’s telling me – it’s not okay. You’re not okay. When the lights flash, reality is so broken. I feel broken. All the hope and love that I build throughout the day – watching my children play and say please and eat their broccoli – feeling the ease in my yoga practice – walking out of a lecture theater feeling a little bit wiser – being embraced by someone my soul aches for – yet all that is damaged. And the hope doesn’t linger. Hopelessness can be so crippling. I worked so fucking hard to keep the hope. I gave everything of myself to keep it. Flash. It’s gone.

 

I hate those moments. And they do linger.

 

Like cigarette smoke in your clothing. I walk around after, tainted. I feel like people can smell my fear. I feel alone; like someone whom it pains others to see. I reek of desperation and complication. I have dreamed since a child to be simple. Black and white. What you see is what you get.

 

Yet … what I see has never been okay. What others see has never been okay for me. Its crippling, you know. To feel so busy yet remain so empty. I want to fill myself up. I want to be full.

But still empty. What will it take, do you think? I’ll take the exhaustion. I’ll take the pain and the trials and the mistakes and the sleepless nights. Just fill me up.

 

Stop the flashing lights.

If you ever ask …

 

If you ever ask me about love, I will tell you you taught me how. You brought the clarity and grace. You are Love.

Even when we cry, that’s love gone too far.

Even when we hate, that’s love gone to fear.

And even when we leave, that is love come too near.

 

If you ever ask me why you have two homes, i will tell you it was for love.

We cried, your dad and I, when love went too far.

We used words like hate, but we were afraid.

Even when we left, it was to protect the love … for You.

 

If you ever ask me why I didn’t eat with you, I will lie.

I‘ll lie so I don’t cry.

I’ll hide the words of hate that keep me hidden.

I will leave things unsaid when you come too close.

 

If you ever ask me about life, I will ask you to teach. You brought the clarity and grace. You are Life.

Even when you cry, that’s life gone too far.

Even when you hate, that’s life gone to fear.

And even when we leave, that’s life come too near.

 

If you ever ask me …. I will send you home.

the words come from Love

from Life

from Fear

The words, my dear, come from You.

 

Sian Alexia

I’m sorry

I’m sorry. I’m a fucking fraud. The last posts … much hope. So much healing. But … too much hope. Too much desperation to put it on paper and make it true.

 

You stare at the ceiling and you want to go home.

 

“It” hurts. But what is “it” ? Is it just …life. The experience of being. Could being present hurt that much? Or … is it trying to Not Be … trying to kill something inside … is that what hurts?

 

When I try and locate the pain … it’s indescribable. It’s like an overwhelming depth and fear. Like swimming underwater with no surface break in sight. Trying to hold the breath long enough to find clarity, trying to answer the question while your lungs are burning and bursting and you’re edges are blurring. And then there’s numbness … that comes next. And it’s not better. It’s worse.

 

Because the loss of feeling doesn’t mean all the bad feels go away and all the good feels remain … numbness takes it all. All the tears leave with the smiles. All the past bliss dissipates with all the loss … and your empty. You haven’t even got enough left to get yourself to sleep. You lie awake.

 

You stare at the ceiling and you want to go home.

 

Back to that house in your childhood that was always warm and colourful that never did exist

The one you made up so you could smile.

The one you made up to justify your tears.

 

I’m fundamental, you see. I crave edges and limits and extremes and ends. But … my life has never delivered. I live in grey spaces …

 

… i live in the night …

 

Sleepless nights full of wanting and giving and emptying, emptying, emptying.

 

Fundamental. Fullness … no I’ve never wanted fullness. No full belly. No full house. No full mind. . and then … i cry for the emptiness. I shed tears because it’s all gone. And then i wonder why … i see it now. The words came out and I see it now.

 

I want what does not serve. I must learn to need what does serve and sustain the wanting, unemptied.

I’m so sorry. Always so sorry.

“I am …” How the illness came to sit on my mat.

My first class, I had no idea what yoga was.

Something like Pilates? I was sure it was what very, very flexible people do. In tights. I wasn’t flexible ( and I didn’t wear tights) – and since the birth of my two children, had not even been able to access my abdominal muscles… and that was okay, because concave was okay. Either justifiably bellyful whilst pregnant …. or concave , the ‘rib-cave’ – a remarkably safe place to live… I didn’t think there was a middle road for me. The middle road meant frightening years locked up in a house, too tormented by self hatred to see the world. The middle road meant little-death.

The children … they meant little-life. They were enough – and will always be enough – for me to assemble a surface deep self that functioned – that came out of hiding. I may have watched my relationship with their father erode and explode, and I do still struggle at motherhood. But little-life gives life, even if its a small space to start.

 …yet… the middle road was still mediocre. Grey tones. A Failed Anorexic..

But I went to a class, as  you know.

I went because … I had started university again. Third and final attempt to get through my degree without hospitalization. First attempt to study without the ‘tools’ of starvation extending my curfew to day time hours – where all the world can see. And, as much as it humors me to admit, I started out that journey of de-starv-atizing …. by joining the gym. Skirting peoples eyes and, well, thinking maybe I could look like a dancer if I did this ‘yoga’. Maybe I’ll find a fast track to suction up the waste-line and people will start adverting their gaze from me again. Maybe I’ll re-anorexia-tize, and then university wont matter so much.

But …. yoga happened instead.

Ask anyone who has an eating disorder and they will tell you what sitting with your body feels like. There is simply nothing NOTHING worse. And now … to sit here and often hear the voice in my head “Pause. Soften. Feel your body” as a relief? if there are miracles possible in this world – that’s one of them. Lets not pretend that the anorexia voice has vanished into space – its all still there. Today as i sat down to my laptop I spent 3 minutes checking my thighs as they weighed down on the seat. I deliberately tightened my stomach. I scrupulously scanned my setting for the ‘thinner-than-mes’ (an increasingly common breed of person I am working on making peace with) – You could well be a ‘thinner-than-me’ – but fear not, I promise to respect your mind, even if i feel uncomfortable standing next to your body and being a ‘bigger-than-her’ . 2 years ago I would have cried after you walked away. Because the voice told me that I was no longer okay. That the ‘bigger-than-her’ breed was one of deformity and I had better stay the fuck out of society or else find a collarbone-shaving-cure, stat.

But …. yoga happened instead.

Pause. Soften. Feel your body – I’ve been so fortunate on my journey through yoga. I found people – all these bright shiny souls whose feeling-tones matched their colorful eyes – who took my hand and walked beside me as i discovered the light within myself. The people who taught me asana, the minds who spoke words of impermanence and peace …. the hearts who reflected my own – who in their opening broke open my chest; Moved my shoulder-blades down my back – helped me stumble across this safe, warm, quiet place within my self where i was no one. I was someone. And I was new. Now. To the next. This moment. To the next. I was new and I could heal. I was new and I could feel.

If I hadn’t found yoga … well, there is no if I hadn’t found yoga, because i have. I’m grateful for my daily practice. I am grateful for my teachers – the ones I know intimately, and the one’s I may have only met once – I am grateful for all the brilliant minds out there who offer guidance through their words as we partake on a yogic path … I love the people i walk past on the street and sit next to in class … and I am grateful for myself. I am learning to trust myself, the more that I see less self. The simple thought that i am not one thing, but many, is liberating. I don’t have to be my past, or my future. I don’t have to be my hopes. I don’t have to be my failures. My dreams can be just dreams and my pains …just pain.

I can just be my present – and taken moment by moment – it is possible to work with ease. I hope to one day take the urgency out of my life-experience – I’ll keep the fear, it can serve me well; I’ll keep the sadness, it can release the fear; I’ll keep the pain, it reminds me to make peace with feeling sad. But I don’t want to live in hurry. Happiness, freedom, release is not ‘over there’ – there is no race through life to reach wholeness, there is no timeline to be stuck on …. there is nothing more than now. And the moment i look over my shoulder and reach for the past …. the moment I reach forward and attempt to caress the future … I am robbing myself of the life I have waited for so fucking long to start living. No. I won’t do it anymore. I want to slow down. Pause. Soften. Feel my body. Love. Love. Love.

If someone asked me “how did you recover from anorexia?” I would tell them that I have not recovered. In fact … I would tell them that i don’t want ‘recovery’. I have just …. continued. I have stabilized the parts in me that move too much, in order to bring softness to the stuck side, like finding integrity in eka pada rajakapotasana. I am all the voices. I let them in. I don’t run, but I don’t hide either. I am not an ‘anorexic’ NOBODY is ‘an anorexic’ – just as I am not a ‘yogini’ or a ‘mum’ or a ‘student’. I’m all of that and everything else too. I don’t starve anymore, because I let the lines move. The definitions are hazy and the stencils have all gone broke.

it’s not “I am …..”. its “I AM”.

and yes …. I wear tights.

for the two who are my whole

 

Oh, how we danced today

with lose limbs and crazy squeals

(you called them dragon roars; I felt the fire)

 

We laughed today

You told me to stand still

And I tickled you until you dissolved on me. With me. I wish you could come back within me.

 

We climbed today!

You flew down that slide like you had wings

It felt like the first time I had let you two free, and you still came back to me.

 

I held you today.

we were warm and true and full of light

We danced and we laughed and we flew and we loved.

 

It was just us three.

Like it may always be.

And we loved and we loved and we loved and we loved.

Sian Alexia

my back , it aches.

 

So often in my life I’ve had this urgent, screeching, potent voice that glides over my shoulder blades – back and forth – “YOUR BACK IS BREAKING. THROW IT ALL IN.” It’s the moment where I panic. I’m anxious and so fucking afraid. I feel like this circus trained elephant, riding a unicycle and juggling expensive crockery  – one second of lost attention, one breath out of place – and its over. A career. My finances. My small framed fame. Life. Is over. The pressure is overwhelming, all consuming.

 

It makes me want to quit …. Everything. I’m all or nothing. If I quit one thing, they all must go. I might as well quit good and proper. Go out with a bang.

 

I guess …. That perfectionism; that determination to be all or nothing – see’s me fighting on, cups smashing at my feet, shards digging into the small of my back, as I stumble through the peaceful lands of what I seek. I wake everyone up – I’m not soothing or vital like I’ve always so wished I could be. But I’m still there. The circus opens for another day – and god knows I cant give it up.

 

It takes. Takes and takes and takes and takes. But the more that is taken from me – the more sure I am, that it is not what you are given in this life, but what you give, that keeps us truly alive.

unfinished masterpiece

We may all be masterpieces. we may all be pieces that contribute to some ultimate reality … But the feeling that I am the missing part is real. The feeling that I was never quite finished on the production line. I fell off at some point, and now life’s chaos is sure to take me. I was never whole from the start, and now i stumble around with fresh  wounds hoping to find refuge.

I do feel broken you know.

I do sometimes feel ashamed to be present.

I do wish it was not so.

Letting go is vital. And it’s a survival tool. But letting go, like everything else there is, is temporary. Is not some final release that showers one in peace and equanimity. Its temporary, and is fucking hard work. Worthy work, but it’s never easy. And it always seems to mean letting go of some good with the bad. Forgoing a friend to let go of the enemy. Often they’re one in the same.

I’m not sure what stage this is or even what madness I am entertaining when i wonder  …. How does knowing a truth ease the truth? How does recognizing a meaningless existence cool the sting of shame and the ache of hardship? How does knowing one is limitless free us from limitation?

I am broken, you know.

I do sometimes not want to be present.

 

But I can’t wish that it wasn’t so – that, that is what will take me.

Those illusions though…

I am confronted today. Confronted with a stark realization of how memory works. so we feel and experience things … that’s the good stuff. Reality.  Whats occurred to me though is that most of us spend our precious time lingering in the memories of those moments. Hell, we even think about what the memories will be like while we’re still in the moment. And its corrupt! it’s stealing us from all there really is.

Okay … that was too much too soon. even for me. Typing and thinking at the same time is a dangerous art.

Today i revisited a place where I lived for about 4 years with my former partner and the father of my two children. The house that we moved into when i got pregnant, beholding a miracle that none of us could quite grasp. The home that we brought our babies home to – where I nursed them through the night and made floral canvases for their rooms. The …. setting… to which everything fell apart.

But the place is gone. Yes, the house stands. But this place that I had built up in my head – tied up in a web of complicated and tormented emotions, swamped by snap shots of bliss and backdrops of long, lonely nights – hasn’t survived. Looking at this house from the street, i felt the echo of loss and the little infant cries that stir my blood, but I couldn’t see anything in the bricks nor the garden that lived up to the canvas prints my mind had drawn. Everything had changed … but it wasn’t the new grass in the back yard or the new paint on the garage that made the place seem different …. it was me. I am different – and my memories have been bent out of shape as I follow a new path.

 

Like a small child, looking up at a merry-go-round and seeing this looming carousel of magic – then returning as a teenager and finding only rusted bars and splintering wood; I have grown. I was once so small in that house – and to get through the nights I created art in my memories to try and make sense of the fear and give it a cause. But now, I feel I have outgrown all those frames….

 

…I can look across the street and see a house. One I used to live in. One i had called home.

But is home no more.

meaningless

 

Once I lived for why.

Now I live for not

a clue as to why my time here

shall end. Shall start. Shall

cease when the ceaseless days arise

and fall.

The tail end of promised

grace is bitter;

lifeless like life is;

as meanings are

meaningless.

 

Sian Alexia