Supposedly feeling your feelings is good but I think it’s hard. I think it’s a hard, hard road.
I read that the number one and number two things that helped the rescue workers who were traumatized after 9/11 were yoga and massage. Supposedly if we pay attention to how our bodies feel, how we’re breathing, what we’re holding tight, we’ll move through these experiences we’ve kept locked up in our muscles.
Today I did a hot yoga class in the morning. It was hard. Sweat dripping down my face, falling out of poses, heart racing. I did an easier one on friday and during that one I started crying. Today’s yoga was too difficult to cry during but now I’m crying.
I had to talk with someone about this fantasy I used to have. When I moved back from California I thought I was in love with a friend and I thought we might date. That was just another weird delusion of mine. It was sort of a useful delusion. It was better to keep my mind occupied with that rather than the really hard reality that I was starting over in a lot more debt and chin hairs and with everyone back home knowing I’d failed and was definitely an official crazy person. Also, it kept me really picky about other boys this past year, and that’s been a good thing. Also, it gave me another incentive to make my wardrobe better, and that was a good thing too.
But also, yeah, it’s another fantasy I was living within. Like the trans fantasy. Like the comedian fantasy before that. If you have a habit of taking extended breaks from dealing with reality it’s super sad when you come back to dealing with reality.
It just feels sometimes super sad to face myself. And the thing about fantasy is it sneaks in on you. Judging what stories jumping around in my head actually match the processes of the outside world is not my strong suit. So when I’m telling a story about the past, the events happened, but I don’t actually know when my interpretation of the events is anywhere close to what was going on. And when I’m telling a story about my future- well, I’m usually just way wrong. My predictions are completely useless. My jokes about the future are usually better predictions.
So many of the stories I’ve told myself about who I am were just ways to keep me from feeling the pain and fear of who I actually am in the situations I’m actually in. I get why people fantasize about being adult babies. I’d love to just have a fucking caretaker right now. (But wearing a diaper sounds disgusting.) But if someone would let me curl up around them while they pat my back that would be the greatest. Ugh FUCKING THE DESIRE FOR HUMAN CONNECTION. WHAT A BUNCH OF BULLSHIT.
Ok, but the thing is reality checks are hard blessings, but they are blessings. Even when they hit you and it’s overwhelming and you cry. It is a total blessing to see where you are, see where you are in relation to what you want out of life, see where you are in relation to the relationships you’re creating, etc. Even if you feel super, super sad.