Post 17: A short book about feeling broken

:: BOOK ONE ::

 

 

Chapter 1

I was so ready for you.
my Right Now.

I almost lost sight of you, completely.

I spent the last week aging a year,
and crying a few rivers.

There is so much I hope to forget,
and so much I’m newly afraid of.

But I am no longer interested in feeling defeated;
not at this level. Nah.
 

Chapter 2

You see, I got to that space of Soul Surrender when I created yet another “highly anticipated,” product, and only a handful of people bought it.

I stopped getting clients, and no money was coming in from our usual sources. He was working hard, and I was working hard, and none of it meant shit. We were failing. Not surviving; failing. As a matter of fact, we failed.

For me, that meant I had failed my daughters. They couldn’t take violin lessons. Or dance classes. Or road trips across the country.
 

Chapter 3

So, if the one thing I never wanted to do was now being done, what was the point of moving on? How could I not stop and ask myself what to do next? I had to slow everything to a halt. Let myself fall.

But I didn’t expect to not be able to get up. I stayed fallen. Broken actually. And I almost stopped trusting my footing. The dreams I had held on my head like a prized crown, became a sack of potatoes that burst open and started knocking my body and my resolve.
 

Chapter 4

I had discussions with my man and my mother. My first born and my washbelly. All somewhat helpful and authentically warm. But hearing their voices, and seeing how much faith they had in me, made it even worse.

They, my family, friends, and tribe, believed in me. And somehow, with all the love and support I’ve always had, I couldn’t quite make a Self of myself. That was the truth that had come to light.

That light had my dreams and ambitions scattering like shiny brown roaches. I caught a glimpse of the real possibility that I may never actually live the design of the life I long-craved.
 

Chapter 5

They say the darkness is the bleak, scary space, but not for me.
When I get eye level with depression,
it’s anything but dark.

It’s a blinding brightness
that washes over my sight
and weakens my will.

It’s the bright that wakes you before you’re actually ready to wake up.
It’s the blinding bright that almost hurts your ears.
It’s the bright that leaves everything washed out and and foggy as fuck.
 

Chapter 6

Then a series of dark spots started catching my attention. I stopped being around as much as possible. I spent less time with my daughters, and picked fights with my man. I smiled at my mother and hugged her tight, without believing any of the good things she had to say about me.

I read emails from women who thanked me for helping them remember themselves. And I pitied them for believing that I could help them.
 

Chapter 7

But somehow, I’ve arrived at you,
my Right Now. And not a moment too soon.

I spent the last week aging a year,
and crying a few rivers.

There is so much I hope to forget,
and so much I’m afraid of.

But I am no longer interested in feeling defeated; not at this level. Nah.
And so here I am, writing myself into a crawling position,
so that I may crawl out of my highly-flammable funk.
 

Next Post — How I’m Crawling Out of My Funk