grey

Writing these posts has become a ritual, a routine. I don't feel right if I don't write in the morning. Then again, I often don't feel "right." I have gotten so used to feeling wrong that feeling right feels wrong. I am kind of being ha-ha right now, but as with everything I say that's ha-ha, there's a li'l bit of truth-truth in there as well... Or else it wouldn't be ha-ha. Am I right? Or am I wrong? Or am I comfortable combination of the two? Yes, yes, and yes.

I am wrong about the following:

*I thought my sister took our Seinfeld DVDs back to her house. She did not.
*I said the Seinfeld DVDs are ours, but I am wrong. I think. I think they are my ex's???
*For years I thought this man's last name was "Butterball," but it's "Butterbaugh." I still call him Butterball, though, for obvious reasons.
*A lot of people I gave chances to in the past. I was wrong about them or maybe I was wrong about myself or it could've been that I was in the, yes, wrong place at the wrong time (and with the wrong hairstyle).
*I thought I would hate the book Eat, Pray, Love. Wrong.

I am right about the following:

*Emotions are clouds.
*Clouds are not emotions, but they do bring strong storms.
*Avocados will always be nearly, if not completely, magical.

So those are the only "right" things I could think of? For now, yes. I am moving slowly this morning and it frustrates me because I never learn that slow is not always wrong. Using double negatives? Also wrong. Instead of looking for all the rights and wrongs in the world and in me today, maybe I can learn to shrug my shoulders and live within the grey areas. Grey goes well with my hair color anyway.

Here's to being neither right or wrong. Here's to just being.

crave

You do not wanna know where these peas have been, sir. (They've been on my bare butt on and off for almost two weeks.)

Anyway, good morning! Frozen peas and green beans are comfortably in place and I am READY TO WRITE!!!

Things I will write about right now:

*I saw a magazine called Alive! I appreciate their enthusiasm, but is it anxiety disguised as enthusiasm? At least it appears to be more upbeat than the magazine Living Without, which is all about allergies. I think. I think a lot of things. And these thoughts about magazines that ultimately don't matter at all have been some of my first thoughts of the day. First thought, not necessarily best thought. Sorry, William Blake/Allen Ginsberg.

*In less than a week I will be working on a dude ranch in Wyoming. THAT'S RIGHT. Have I mentioned this yet? I don't think I have. Well, I don't have too much to tell you right now because I don't really know much about what's going to happen. I do know that I have to have work gloves, goggles, and an exquisite ball gown. One of those three things is a joke. And that thing was the goggles. Goggles decidedly clash with ball gowns.

*Is it normal to wake up in a panic about your health/what could go wrong/what is already wrong and fall asleep in an almost mirror image panic? The in between parts (you know, the daytime) are when you pull every trick out of your hat in order to not think about all of your potentially real and absolutely imagined fears. Or at least this is how it is for me. Every. Single. Day. Am I alone in this? Or am I completely normal?

*We all crave identities, right? From a Buddhist perspective, there are many problematic aspects to this. But I'm not looking at it from a Buddhist perspective right now. I'm looking at it from the perspective of someone who totally wants a solid, healthy identity. The Chick with Anorexia is a solid identity, sure, but hahahaha it ain't so healthy. Oh my, that was hilarious. Whenever I'm in full blown recovery, I become drawn to about 1,000 identities in an almost frantic attempt to replace ED. Many with eating disorders will turn to veganism during recovery (or before), which makes sense. It's another way to control what you eat, but one that is obviously much more positive than anorexia/bulimia. And I think it's fine, for the time being. I think as long as the patient is eating, right? But ultimately I'd like to see ALL OF US HUMANS give up the desire to be in control of... anything. Okay, maybe we should be in control of our emotions and reactions, but letting go of the inflexible self-imposed rules might be the ultimate goal for a lot of us. US HUMANS.

Alright, dears, the frozen vegetables have transformed, through the magic of science, into soggy vegetables. I take this as my cue to get my sore ass off the chair and start doing adult-like things, such as paying my insurance bill and checking my Twitter feed. Oh, and shop for a ball gown. Obviously.

band

My butt hurts and it is cold (thank the frozen peas and green beans -- I've moved on to two bags of vegetables). My eye freaks out constantly due to old contacts (?) or killer pollen (?) or a beautiful mix of the two. My nose won't rest until it is blown. That last sentence sounds unintentionally pervy and that's okay. And there are always strange things going on with my fingers, the big toenail on my right foot is so funky that it's almost entertaining, and occasionally I'll get these curious indentations on my forehead. Am I falling apart? No, I just have a body. So I guess in a way I am falling apart. We all are! Welcome to mortality!

Alright, now that I have that weirdness out of the way, let me get serious. Pause pause pause... After typing "let me get serious," I sat (on peas) staring (with my wonky eye) at the computer with my fingers (which are sometimes wonky, but thankfully not so much right now) resting on the keyboard, having no clue what to type next. Typical. But still I type! Still I waste your time with words you need not read because lately I am never saying anything new or provocative or entertaining. If anything, I am only writing words which lead to concern and/or annoyance. But then again...

...Then again, maybe it would be cool if I give myself some credit or at least a break. I am so quick to jump on the self-deprecating bandwagon (there's a self-deprecating bandwagon?) for whatever reason -- is it an attempt at modesty? Is it a shield of some sort? Is it an excuse to write crummy things? I don't know, but it's not very fun. And it's summertime! Everything is supposed to be fun! Fun and popsicles! And it's also my life -- I don't want to make every moment a drag, ya know? Not every moment has to be popsicles, but I can at least throw a few Otter Pops in there to balance out the shit pies I regularly make myself eat.

Soooo... Am I advocating self-love? You bet your ass I am. I advocate it all the time -- just for other people. And I usually have plans to practice it for myself, but I never quite follow through with them. I suppose what I am writing right now is simply another plan, but this time I'm going to ask you to help me to stick with the plan -- the plan to see myself as a friend, not an enemy. I want to be my biggest support, not a horrific dictator with a frozen butt. You don't have to tell me any encouraging words or "check up" on me or whatever... Just send me some rad vibes, yeah? Yeah, thanks!

Look at me -- becoming all vulnerable and asking for help. Aren't I adorable? Oh no! Did I say that in a condescending voice? Maybe a little. Old habits are hard to break. But there was a little bit of sincere love in there as well. The love feels better. It always has, it always will.

I LOVE YOU, MEG!!!

pack

Nothing is less pleasant to me this morning than shrieking children right outside the window. Look, I don't mind laughter or even shouting, but shrieking? Who raised you little gremlins? A skulk of red foxes? (I googled "shrieking animals" and the first result was red foxes. Their shrieks are used to attract mates. Get a room, Vulpes vulpes! And a group of foxes is called a skulk, according to the Internet. And a female fox is called a "vixen." And I once, at the age of 27-ish, bought a fox stuffed animal at Yellowstone because I was emotionally fragile and needed some kind of comfort, which I momentarily found in the form of an overpriced toy sewn from a textile and stuffed with a soft material.)

So shrieking! Yes! Pleasant! Continue! It stopped. Reverse psychology! I nearly spelled "psychology" as "sychology" because who needs Ps anymore? Speaking of Ps, I have peas down my pants right now. Makeshift ice pack, darlings. It works really well, actually! Last night I spent a good two hours icing and heating my ass. Lying down on the floor watching documentaries about former professional skateboarders, the US/Mexican border, and South Side Compton Crips, I finally took care of myself and let my muscles get the spa treatment. I don't know what "the spa treatment" is, but I'm guessing it probably doesn't have anything to do with a bag of frozen green peas down one's pants. At least not yet.

I am forcing myself to write right now, but I don't think I'm really feeling it. I gotta feel things, you know? Lately I've been a bit robotic, which always concerns me. But do robots feel concern? Probably not, so at least I still have some humanness within me. My robot syndrome is most likely a result of me not handling unpleasant and unexpected events particularly well. I am making some progress, though. It's sort of a two and a half steps forward, two steps back. I am progressing by tiny half steps, but they are steps and I'll take them.

I will also take some kava because damn I drank too much caffeine too quickly this morning. I thought I needed to with the shrieks coming from outside my window/mind. I thought, "Geez, I'm such an adult! Gotta have my coffee fix and then I will transform from a grumbling grump to a productive member of society! Probably right that's how it works well let's just see then..." And I guess it doesn't really work that way, at least not this morning for me. Well, so be it. The shrieks have stopped, my heart has stopped racing, the peas have defrosted, and my butt is pleasantly numb. Today will be a good day. I'll make sure of it.

combo

I reeeeeally need to relax if I'm ever going to recover. But I am the most restless person you have ever (or never?) met. No wonder I enjoy running so much -- it releases a lot of that built-up antsy-ness. Channel that energy into something else, Meg! Like writing! Reading! Even 'rithmetic! I know, I know. I know I should and could, but do I? Yes. Does it work? Kinda sorta not really. Maybe there's something wrong with my thyroid? Who knows. The combination of physically restless paired with mentally exhausted is not a good one. But you know what IS a good combo? Pretzels and nacho cheese. And pretzels and mustard. And pretzels and cream cheese. Really, there are endless pairings when it comes to the pretzel. Pretzels and beer, pretzels and wine, pretzels and whisky, pretzels and existential conversations with pretentious philosophy students who double as DJs on the weekends, pretzels and marinara sauce, pretzels and carrots (don't diss it until you try it, bub), pretzels and pills, pretzels and pickles. I can't say enough about the pretzel. Want me to continue? Okay. Pretzels and bananas, pretzels and dark chocolate, pretzels and white chocolate, pretzels and milk chocolate, pretzels and breast milk, pretzels and perfume, pretzels and

Fine. I'll stop, but don't be surprised if I start right back up again in a minute when I inevitably hit a wall/come across a block/trip over my self-doubt. This whole room I'm sitting in smells like ammonia or Lysol or something and I am wondering if it's doing my brain any harm. If it is, it might be welcomed. Fewer brain cells just mean I'm less anxious, right? Is that how it works? Should doctors be prescribing paint fumes instead of prescription pills? Should I be a doctor? Might as well give it a shot. Shoot for the moon and if you miss you'll at least have a stethoscope you can bring to parties as a conversation starter and stopper.

This has been an almost total garbage post, but you know what? At least I'm not smoking doobies with the cool kids under the bleachers at school. Drugs R not cool, kids! Except for Lysol and paint fumes and pretzels. Pretzels and doobies. First the doobie, then the pretzels. MAN, what a combination!

Yeah, definitely a garbage post. Maybe my brain will chill out in an hour or two or twelve and I can write something more focused, insightful, heartbreaking, illuminating, and wise. Maybe. Just maybe.

let

Y'ALL READY TO READ ABOUT MY INJURY/EATING DISORDER/YURT FASCINATION AGAIN?!?!

It might actually be enjoyable to read about my fascination with yurts. "Enjoyable" may be too strong of a word, but at least a long meditation on yurts would be more upbeat than my melancholic ramblings on injuries and illnesses.

Buuut real quick -- I have had what might be a bit of a breakthrough? Just a bit, not a complete. Anyway, it goes along with what I said in my last post about saying "eff it" and dropping whatever storyline you've got going on up in your head that in undoubtedly causing you grief. This morning I saw myself as a mystery inside of a body. Ohhhh, spooooky! But not spooky. I am not my body, yet at the same time I must reconnect with the body I currently have. I have a body to do things with, but I am not my body. Oh man, this is getting too weird and dumb. And BRILLIANT. Dumb and Brilliant: Meghan's Journey Into the Mystery: Now a Major Motion Picture Starring Mo'Nique.

So I can drop my anxieties over injuries and imperfections and instead be interested. Be curious, be connected, be caring. No more punishing, okay, Meg?

I hit a wall. I tend to do that after the third or fourth paragraph. I think my mind is too occupied with the mundane tasks of the day. ("They don't have to be mundane if you simply stay focused and in the present moment!" says Guru Meg, high atop a meditation cushion.) But seriously, I have to go to Costco AND pack for my trip to Wyoming. Oh, did I not mention I'm going to Wyoming on Sunday? To work on a dude ranch? Well, I am. Guess I should've spent more time discussing that then getting all wooey wooey about some spooky mystery inside of a perfectly imperfect body, huh? Oh well, too late, will discuss later. <3 <3 <3

scene

It has only been one week since my injury, but it feels like it has been a lifetime. I am still so discouraged and don't expect myself to be less discouraged in the near future. But in the FAR future? In the far future I better be the opposite of discouraged. I better be so full of light and groovy vibes that I bleed sparkles and shit rainbows. In order to get to this far future, however, I might actually have to put in a little work now. I won't go into a long spiel about living in the now because we've all heard it before, so instead I will just say...

FUCK IT!!!

Sorry, mom!!! I am so sorry! Fudge it. Fudgebucket it. There you go. Point is, in much calmer, more appropriate words, I can't keep obsessing over a future scenario and forget about the current scenario. If I do, I will be miserable and the future, be it near or far, will also be miserable. The key is to live deeply in this moment. Wrap yourself up in what's in front of you, Meg. But also stop calling yourself "Meg." Meg is an identity. And so is Running Girl and Anorexic Chick and Writer and Blogger and Daughter and Reader and... And what's so wrong with identities? Nothing is inherently wrong with being this or being that, but you run into trouble when you attach yourself to being this or being that -- the trouble is the lack of freedom, the absence of sufficient oxygen. There is no room in labels. There is no vision beyond. It is a fiction disguised as the only way.

So now that I have limited mobility, I am going to move beyond the body and focus my attention on the mind. It has become overgrown with weeds due to years of neglect. Sorry 'bout that, Mind! But let's get down to business now. And let's cut those strings to the storylines that keep weighing you down. Good thing I brought my garden shears.

The sun! The sun came back out! Looks like the sun is my true nature and the clouds are never permanent.

filing

Today was a day! Aaaand... Post. Kidding. But today really was a day, still is, and it looks like it'll be one I remember for awhile. So in other words, today is one of those days that sticks out. The 24 hours won't blend into the countless other 24 hours up there in my brain. My brain: Is this where my memories are stored? Or is it in the heart? Or is there some filing cabinet in the clouds with pages of my past gathering dust? (I don't know if papers in a filing cabinet gather dust, but it sounded poetic so it's staying. Don't be so picky.)

So today was a day because it was one where I was forced to do the thing I hate to do called "confront." I was placed in an environment, which was the hospital, that did not allow for avoidance. In fact, it's almost comical how much one cannot run from life in a hospital. You don't want to run from life in a hospital. You're desperately running towards life, or trying to keep up with life in hopes that it won't slip away. Hospitals are places where you try to catch up. Hospitals are places where, defying all logical, you run and stop at the same time.

Do I feel like going into all of the small details of today's great hospital adventure? Not really, but mostly because I am zzzzz. I am sleepy because I have weird blood that doesn't give me enough oxygen and oxygen is important for a lotta things, including the brain and filing cabinets. I will reassure you, however, and say that I am doing better. I am not all better, I am doing better. I haven't reached a destination, but the road I'm on now has considerably fewer potholes. I'll take it.

I wish to write more. My fingers also need oxygen, though. Maybe later when I can't sleep and I'm trying to thing of an excuse to not meditate, I will write another post. Maybe! Maybe not! My! Life! Is! Made! Up! Of! In! De! Ci! Sion! INDECISION!!!

want

Do you ever feel like you could write the world's greatest self-help book, despite being an utter mess in your personal life? Great! Me too! Unrelated, but do you ever get strange red spots on your eyeball that go away after a few days and don't really bother you except they totally bother you mentally because you are a hypochondriac and can't help but obsess over any and every oddity your body gifts you with, no matter how big or small? Great! Me too! And do you ever say, "Gee, I'm gonna take it easy and rest my body and give it time to recover!" but end up walking for five hours in an attempt to ease your anxiety, which just makes your feet suuuper sore and your neighbors suuuper suspicious of this curious girl with the book in hand and the scandalous shoulder tattoo? Yep, wonderful! Great! Splendid! Me too!

I am going to "rest" again today because I want to, I need to, and, well, that's about it. My wants and needs. That's all. And that's all I want to write about concerning this whole time-off-from-the-gym thing. Enough! I've written about it too much, mostly because it is a huge worry of mine. But I don't want to dwell on it anymore. There are about 100,976,889,452 other things in this world to which I can give my attention, all of them more important and fascinating than some goofy gym. Sigh. (One big positive thing that has come from The Great Gym Absence of 2016 is that I am able to discover what some of these 100,976,889,452 things are! My only regret is that I didn't discover them far, far sooner.)

I want Ethiopian food. I want a town to call home. I want a rooftop conversation with someone who challenges my mind. I want to be in a theater production again. I want to identify trees and native plants and weeds. I want lavender hair, despite not being a teenager anymore. I want the perfect red lipstick. I want to pack up and leave, but not run away. I want to discard and get rid of the disguises. I want to dig deep and live light. I want curry.

What the?! Guess what? It feels pretty damn good to express your wants. Not your needs, but your wants -- you know, those things you are supposed to be too humble to admit. The things you are supposed to suppress and find silly, frivolous. Well, none of those wants are frivolous, not even the one about lavender hair and lipstick. Your wants are valid and deserve to be brought out into the light. Share them, seek them, find them. Want what you want, babes. You deserve all of those things and more.

attend

What happens when you no longer dream? I think it just means that you'll be tired. You aren't diving deep enough into sleep. You are constantly being interrupted or kept awake for who knows what reason. It's usually due to your thoughts, the thoughts you've pushed aside during the day because, well, they aren't entirely pleasant thoughts. Luckily I don't have a problem with falling asleep, but it must be my bladder's mission to prevent dreams from happening. Why, bladder, why? Could it be the 64 ounces of water I drink before bed? Sure, that's one explanation. Okay, that's probably the only explanation. DumDum MegMeg. But last night! Last night I finally had vivid, complex dreams. I still woke up to pee at least three times, but no more than five, so I consider that a SUCCESS. I guess slight dehydration has its perks.

No one wants to hear about somebody else's dreams, so you are OFF THE HOOK. Plus, as each minute passes, my dream(s) dissipate. I also can't spend too long typing/writing/whatever I'm currently doing because it is SATURDAY and I am going to GET SHIT DONE.

It is day three off of the gym -- again, suuuper hard and suuuper annoying that it is suuuper hard. When I pause for one suuuper short second, I realize how much I don't want to be the person whose entire mind is taken up with anxiety over something as trivial as a workout. Yep, physical fitness is grand and important -- and guess what? I'll always be moving, if I am so blessed, simply because that's in my nature. I like being active -- but I do not like being active as a punishment. And that's exactly what I've made exercise out to be for me -- punishment. Or repentance. Definitely not out of love.

I have noticed that I approach many situations and relationships with fear in my pocket rather than love. Fear serves it's purpose to keep us out of danger, sure, but this kind of fear I'm talking about is a fear that stunts any kind of growth. It leaves me emotionally bankrupt. Love, on the other hand, is plentiful. I will never be without if I am with love. It is so, so simple. So why don't I discard the fear and fill my pockets (and heart and mind and actions and words) with love?

Can I be lazy and just end this with, "It's a journey!" Sure I can because it's true. It is a journey, this whole figuring-out-life thing. In order to continue on the journey, I must be willing to be vulnerable. Vulnerability will lead to action -- and when that action is done with awareness, it will lead me to love. Love will always be the reward of careful attention. Keep your chin up, kid. You got this.

wonk

I am typing this on the world's smallest computer. It's so small that it doesn't even exist. I am typing this IN YOUR MIND. I am also typing this with no contacts on my eyeball. I stepped outside for one godforsaken minute and in those blasted 60 seconds I got some kind of gnarly pollen in my eye, thus causing me to mildly panic, take out my contacts/eyesight, rinse off my gnarly pollen-infected eyeball, take a shower, wash my hair, and... Oh, who cares. Point is, I have seasonal allergies. Aren't you so glad I spent that time to get to this point? And is it even a point or merely an uninteresting fact? Well, it wouldn't be an uninteresting fact if you were a person who murdered people with pollen. Weapon of choice? Pollen, every time.

Okay, now I am sitting in front of the world's most medium sized computer. It exists, unlike the previous computer. But do I exist? This is not just a flippant question. I ask no flippant questions. Never have, never will. So I want to hear your answer: DO I EXIST. Do I exist? Get out your dictionaries, grab your

HEY EVERYONE! I wrote the two above paragraphs last night on some kind of weird high! And what was I trying to grab? We may never know.

Tonight I am on slightly less of a high. All day I have just been, shall we say, medium. Not too hot, not too cold. Not too happy, not too sad. Everything hasn't necessarily been "alright," but it just has been. It was just. Everything was. I don't know how else to explain it. That's okay. I survived another day off of the gym without any major meltdowns. In fact, I am willing to admit that I have secretly kinda sorta liked not going to the gym? It has been an interesting experiment pretending to be somebody else -- somebody who is not obsessive, somebody who is chill as fugg, somebody who actually kinda sorta likes herself. !!! Wowza, I know. Fake it 'till you make it? I just might have to.

Well! Enough of all of this, whatever this has been. Now more of reading poetry (tonight: Adrienne Rich, maybe sprinkled with some Anne Waldman) and attempting transcendental meditation and soul searching followed by a shower with scalding water. This is my kind of Friday night, people. I live large.

trap

I sat down to write and then I spent five minutes picking hair off of my black hoodie. That's what I get for washing my hair and, well, wearing a black hoodie! The end. Wow, whatever writing skills I had have all but disappeared over the past couple of years -- ever since accidentally graduating! I graduate from college and now I have no one telling me to write, no assignments to complete, no deadlines to meet. I am a free woman!!! A free woman who is actually trapped by many, many things. So I am instead a trapped woman!!! A trapped woman who sometimes forget she has a gender. I am merely trapped!!!

So what traps me? Get ready to read a lengthy list. Get ready to be bored by said lengthy list. This snooze fest of a list is therapeutic for me, though. So write it I shall.

I am trapped by...

eating disorders
fear of all kinds, specifically my fear of power, responsibility, illness, death, food, hairballs
for reals, hairballs gross me out like nothing else
obsessive compulsiveness
body dysmorphia
society's expectations, maaan!
indecision -- this one is HUGE
self-doubt -- this one is also HUGE
perfectionism (again, this is a very, very large trap)
the music! kidding, I don't know what that means

Okay, I'm done with the list. I even bored myself with the list! It was mostly boring, slightly therapeutic, and, for some reason, a tad erotic. Kidding aaaagain. Guess what? If it hasn't been shockingly obvious, I kid a lot. I joke away the pain, I laugh away the awkwardness, I wink wink nudge nudge my way through life. I think that's okay, though. I think it's okay to be and do a lot of things, so long as it doesn't hurt yourself or anyone else. I suppose some of my puns might be painful... Sorry about that. "Okay" doesn't necessarily mean good, nor does it mean bad. It sort of just means... In between.

Anyway, my traps: Do I try to free myself from them? Do I try to get to that place where I can truthfully exclaim, "I am a free woman!!!" I mean, it seems like the answer would be of course. Of course I should try to better myself, to improve my situation, to aim for the best life possible. But I cannot do any of those things if I do not first accept myself. Once I can accept myself exactly how I am in all my messy, imperfect, obsessive ways will I be able to move forward and begin to live fully, authentically, freely.

Now the challenge is how exactly do I accept my wonky self? Maybe I'll begin to answer that in the next post. For now I am going to head out to the park to hopefully catch a glimpse of my hawk. Have I told you about my hawk? Have I told you that it's not actually my hawk, but everyone's hawk? Or rather, nobody's hawk. The hawk belongs to no one but herself. I am that hawk. Peace, brothers.*

*I never, ever, ever know how to end posts. They always end remarkably weird. BUT I ACCEPT THAT.

rest

It's all about perspective! It's all about chuggin' along! It's all about fakin' it 'till you make it! It's all about not the Benjamins, but the Tubmans. It is what it is. It is the best of the times, it is the worst of times. It is a beautiful day to have a beautiful day. It is springtime in the Rockies! Unpredictable! Rain one minute, sunshine the next! Hail? Sure, why not! Don't kill the tulips, stormy weather. Or kill them if you must, they'll always grow back.

Hi. I'm back. Momentarily. That was a nice warm-up. That was also a nice way to weed out the fickle readers. You, you who are still reading, are dedicated. Thank you for your dedication, thank you for humoring me, thank you for your constant stream of praise and congratulations. There is a special place in both my heart and heaven (same thing?) for readers like you.

This has so far been a garbage post. I'll stop rambling because I can see how it would be obnoxious to read as well as concerning. I swear I am still lucid. I am just typing away all of my anxiety and restlessness! Why so anxious and restless, dear Meg? Well, I'll explain in under 5,000 words: I recently did something wonky to my lower back. I think it is my sciatic nerve or whatever? I dunno. But whatever I did, it makes it painful to run -- and not very wise, either. So that means I gotta rest, huh? What a radical idea. For me it really is a radical idea. I'm under the dumb mindset that you just run off the pain. Or ignore it. Ignore everything and it will go away, Meg! That's worked 100% of the time in the past, hasn't it?! Ohhhh hold on a damn sec. No. No, it hasn't. Ignoring a person/place/thing/irritated sciatic nerve will only make the problem bigger and less easy to ignore. And since I've become a professional in the field of ignoring issues, I have almost no training in how to not ignore issues. In other words, confronting the uncomfortable is a foreign land and I don't even know how to ask for directions.

So I am finally forced to chill the eff out. I am forced to take a break from my breakneck routine before I break. I am forced to face what I've kept hidden for too long. Sweeping out the corners of my life/mind/bedroom, if you will. And I will. I will literally sweep out the corners of my bedroom today. I will clean, I will organize, I will read the hell and heaven and earth out of books, I will write, I will write, I will type, I will maybe MAYBE check my email (gonna take courage), I will keep myself busy so I can... avoid the discomfort. Crap. Back to square one.

Hey, Rome wasn't built in a day. It took at least 48 hours to build one of the largest empires of the ancient world. I get that. I also get that I am ignoring my anxiety about my injury by keeping myself incredibly busy and occupied -- but at least I recognize that? So maybe I'm not completely ignoring my anxiety? Acknowledgment is kinda the opposite of avoidance, yeah? Sigh. Let me pause for a second -- Okay. Okay, I am fine. One or two or even twelve days off of running isn't the end of the world. Keeping busy with healthy things is not a bad thing. Rubbing my butt is definitely not a bad thing. Get that butt feeling better, Meg, and be gentle with yourself, your butt, your mind, etc. You are doing better than you realize.

look

I feel like I have to write today or else I may never write again. That's not true. But that's what it feels like. Sometimes feelings are not true. And most of the time feelings are difficult to explain and can be highly irrational. But feelings should still be felt, I do believe. I feel like we need to feel our feelings. This entire paragraph makes me want to brush my teeth -- it's just a feeling I have. It'll pass. (I'm still going to brush my teeth, though. Maybe even floss if I have the energy, motivation, drive.)

I don't really know what I want to write anymore. Each day goes by kinda fast and they all kinda blend into one long day and I kinda just go through everything on autopilot. But something in me wanted to write today. I take that as a good sign. I take that as maybe I'm waking up from a longer-than-expected depressive episode? I mean, I even returned my very overdue items to the library today. Well, my mom did. Thanks, mom. And those items were CDs. I'm having a hard time reading and finishing books. And the CDs? I don't even want to listen to music anymore. MAAAN I sound so gloomy. I'm not. Okay, maybe I am. I have my moments where I am cheery, though. I do.

Here's the thing: I am told I am a writer. I say I am a writer. Do I want to write? Not particularly. Do I feel "compelled" to write? No. Do I feel like I can do anything else? Not really. Do I want to do something else? Yeah, kinda. What is that something else? I am still trying to find the answer to that question -- but at least I am asking myself that question. I didn't even know that question existed up until a couple of months ago. It is a super serious question that demands attention and time -- and I have never been more ready to give it that attention, to devote that time to figuring out the answer. And it will be my answer.

I think the answer is "be out in nature."

But I'll still search a bit longer.

away

I feel like I need to write a blog post at least once a week or else I may never return to this old dusty corner of the Internet. I also feel like I need to stop feeling things. Okay, that's a lie. If anything, I need to feel more, or at least welcome and be grateful for feelings, something I lost during my stint as an anorexic addicted to stimulants. Oh wait! I will always be an anorexic with an addiction, it's just that I'll be a recovering anorexic addict. We've all got our thing(s), right?

I think a big reason why I've shied away from writing is that I began writing solely about my eating disorder. Now this is perfectly fine and in many ways it's probably very therapeutic. Buuut... Maybe I could either make those ED writings into a separate blog or in a private journal? I also felt consumed by ED thoughts, both negative and positive. In short, my eating disorder and my recovery became my identity. And I simply don't want it to be my identity. I hope to help others with my openness and willingness to share gritty details and everyday anxieties, but there comes a point when I want to step away from that -- all of that -- and just be me.

But who is "me"? Who is this separate being who should have never been separate in the first place? To where am I supposed to return home? I know I have roots, I just can't find them. Yet. I'm searching. I have been searching. I will most likely continue to search until I find these roots, my home, myself. I get exhausted, but I haven't given up yet. I become discouraged, but I'm also fiercely determined.

Hey! Three paragraphs isn't bad. I actually wrote a blog post! I did it without stimulants! I can do more than I realize. Time to start realizing.

coast

Lately I haven't been writing blog posts every single day for a few reasons. And those reasons are: 1) I was becoming obsessive about writing everyday, even if I had no desire, drive, or need to write. So in other words, it was just another thing to check off on my very strict daily to do list. 2) I struggle to write right now without stimulants -- and lord knows I need to stay at least 100 yards away from any and all stimulants. So if I'm typing and struggling to come up with words and sentences and paragraphs, that tempting voice says to me, "Gee, wouldn't this be soooo much easier to do if you just popped a pill? Hmmm???" Blogging has become, essentially, a trigger. Oh good. 3) I am trying to write by hand in a journal more because I think it will be super therapeutic for me. I can really say what I want in a private journal, ya know? Plus, it means I can slow down, write outside, use crazy colored ink, etc. If I want to journal regularly, I have to put my energy into that and not deplete in on, well, doing what I'm doing right now.

And those are a few of the reasons why I have been distancing myself from writing, specifically on writing blog posts. Plus, I feel a little silly even having a blog. I know I shouldn't say that... Isn't that denying a part of myself? Putting myself down? Not acknowledging or appreciating any of the positives and benefits that have come from having this blog? Yes, probably. If only blog wasn't called "blog." It's the "blah" and the "guh" sounds that I don't like, so I guess it's the entire word. Blah-guh.

I have been daydreaming of the coast lately. I mean, I always have ever since I was in diapers. (Don't get me started writing about diapers -- I have a lot to say on the subject. Diapers seem like a wonderful, smart idea for me, an almost 32-year-old woman, right now. Like, if I'm out and about, walking, wandering, doing my thing -- I don't want to have to worry about the sudden urge to take a piss. I don't want to worry about either being arrested for urinating in public or hurrying home with urine-soaked leggings. No, I just want to pee freely and worry about it later. Okay, so I will never write about diapers again, I swear. Unless diapers becomes some kind of national hot topic, like Donald Trump calls women "diaper faces" or Beyonce comes out with another visual album called "The Diaper Diaries" or something. Okay.)

Oh yeah, the coast. It freakin' rocks. And rocks? Yeah, I like rocks on my coast. Rocky coasts that are cold and quiet and maybe frequented by sailor ghosts. I want these coasts to play a prominent role in my life somehow. I want to find my fog, I want to find my pearl.

I want a shower. Talk to you later rather than sooner.

xoxo

disobey

I want to write, but I want to be outside. I want to be outside, but I want to write. I want to write and be outside, but I want to be inside getting things DONE so I can go to bed knowing I actually accomplished something. Can I accomplish things outside? I can, sure. And that is one of my long term goals: To have an outdoors career, preferably one having to do with permaculture and/or telling ghost stories to gullible campers.

What to write, what to write... What to do, what to do... What to say, what to wear, what to love, what to give, what to take, what to break, what to mend. These are questions, although they often lack the appropriate punctuation. Maybe they don't end with a question mark because they don't necessarily end. They are almost chants, words I repeat over and over internally, hoping one day it will lead me to the answers. Or at least one answer. Give me one answer and I'll build off of it.

But for now I will continue to question and continue to practice patience. I don't live in ambiguity particularly well, but I am learning. I have to learn or else I will drown. I think I prefer to swim or at least float.

Sundays! Aren't Sundays great? I used to dread them when I was employed, but now that I am a good-for-nothin' bum, Sundays are terrific! A+! Every day is a Saturday! (I am not really a good-for-nothin' bum. I do this thing called "joking," but I should also do this thing called "practicing positive self-talk." Shoulda woulda coulda.) What do people who aren't chronically fighting their inner critic do on Sundays? Do they relax? Do they go up the canyon with their bike/dog/Nalgene bottle littered with Kokopelli and Patagonia stickers? Do they just do whatever the hell they want? Yeah, probably. What a life! To be mindful and flexible and nurturing towards yourself! I might have to give that a shot. See what it's like for myself.

I bet it's a relief. I bet living a life not ruled by the "need" to be and do a million and three things is a giant freakin' relief. How do I do that? How do I shut up that mean voice and just, you know, do what I wanna do? I think it takes directly challenging the voice here and there. Be a rebel. Do the complete opposite of what the voice commands and do it often. Soon it will become obvious that the world does not end when you disobey. The world, in fact, opens up. Things are cool again and you are hot because self-love looks amazing on you.

Disobey today, sweeties. It's the least and most you can do.