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.