Owning It

Oh, healing process, how you take forever. Forever.

At this stage, I am grossed out by everything and have patience for nothing. I'll take this over irrational paranoia, but still. This is a tough one. It seems that the only way to grow through this phase is to painstakingly, monotonously, begrudgingly do very small, very basic nice things for myself.

To Do (or die) List:

1. Take a damn shower...eventually.

2. Buy some organic zucchini.

3. Go the hell outside and climb some buttes.

4. Make some kale chips.

5. Sit on your yoga mat with a cup of tea.

6. Pick up Symone and sing another vocally lazy rendition of "Skinny Love" like you actually know what the lyrics mean.

7. Love yourself. Try to be convincing.

See? Easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy. It's one of those times when I know that I'm the problem, the solution, the victim, and the survivor. I'll figure it out. I'll talk it out. I'll stretch it out. Eventually, I'll stop feeling like a leprous criminal. An intruder in my own life. A square peg in a round hole. Diseased. Twisted. Wrong. 

Eventually.

For now, I'll own my perceived disfunction in an otherwise successful, colorful, wonderful, adventurous existence. I'll enjoy the ride until the next stage, whatever that may be. Hopefully, it'll be the part when I actually see myself as my friends do, as my colleagues do, as my little sisters do, as my big sister does, or most profoundly, as God does. 

Hopefully.