Thursday, March 07, 2013

Anxiety Confessional

So, small anxiety with my spinning head on my sister's knees. And large, unrealistic expectations of some magical, maternal savior to come in and fix my confused, maternal self.

But, I don't need to be fixed. I need to accept where I am. Broken, and this is very okay, because it is the next step, and the process is not supposed to feel like I feel while I'm smelling the scent of fresh cherry blossoms in the springtime. I'm supposed to feel wrong, so that I can recognize the moment when I become right.

And grace.

I want to read, and feel, and talk, and scream. That's what spring break is for.

I thought I'd come to Boulder to work on my thesis and cry on my sister's couch. Check minus, check plus. Additionally though, my soul is taking a bubble bath in cuddle puddles; being fed, watered, and nurtured. Being hurt, being alright, being exposed, being pruned, being scraped up with its back against the wall, feeling frightened, feeling retreat, feeling contractions, but not birthing anything.

Yet.

I am blessed, grateful, and excited to see what happens next in my wildly adventurous existence. I am even more blessed, grateful, and excited to see who remains standing with me. That's the kicker, the difference. I know that I will get there--by focus, by honesty, and by grace.

And if the cost of being great, of being genuine and human, of actually being okay, is a little bit of dizziness mixed with nausea, sweaty palms and shaking limbs...well. That's not so bad, is it?

I think it's worth it.

And now: I'm in this mountain-greenery springtime sundress, and my curves are bustin' out and bustin' rhymes...all the damn time. I'm idolizing this because of my latest dose of estrogen-based, post-abuse, post-addictive, self-destruction-leads-to-creativity-leads-to-healing text. 

Written by people almost like me, with whom I can perhaps identify. Words that I need to read, spirit moving as it needs to move. In my current case though, this is not mania, nor depression, nor insanity. Not even, surprisingly enough (and I hope the sarcasm in the previous two words has been amply detected), alcoholism or lesbianism. The latter which I don't even believe is a real word, although the red squiggly spell-check line never showed up underneath it. Well, cuss. Who cares? It isn't me, and it hasn't been really, and it won't be either.

I have never fit, I am not crazy, and I love my life. But I am sifting through the darker corners that hurt. I am not a hypocrite. I just...need to be this way for a hot second. Need to grieve over some matriarchal heroine that I can't find, but that I project onto others haphazardly. Need to believe that God is a woman, and a mother (well, obviously). Need to connect with my own soul, and more importantly, my own body. I need to be let go. I need to let go.

And one day, I will find some lovely man who loves us. Me, and my anxiety, and my tiny earthquakes, and my microscopic unborn child. And grace will be the name of the game again, and I can hold my head on high, and my hands higher, and bask in the glory of what it is, what it means, to be healed. Because even the best of us at the worst of times can say that God is good. All the time. 

In re-reading this up until now, I've realized how many baby references there are in here, subtle and not-so-subtle. So to clear everything up, no. I'm not pregnant. I am, however, baby-fevering at twenty two, in a pre-PhD panic, in a sexually dysfunctional funk, in a terrified state of constant rape-whistling, and all the while, I consistently attempt to mother my students like a frenzied tigress.

This is not the source of my anxiety, but it is one of the many results.

I am just glad that it will not be this way forever. And for the sake of the growth, I am glad to go through this.

God is good.

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