There are twelve steps in my house between the washing machine and the couch. I counted them while I was pacing back and forth just now on the phone with someone while they told me some painful truths about myself. Sometimes I listened to her, sometimes I counted my pacing. It’s hard to be one hundred percent engaged when the other person is holding a mirror up to your asshole. I’m not into that kind of thing. I don’t care what the office douchebag told you, I’m not.
She was telling me that I’m haunted by demons. I need to exorcise them. They live in my past. I rely on them to be deficient in my behavior. I’ve done this for so long that I can’t separate what is true from what is a story I just told myself for so long the refrain is echoing in my head so loudly that it’s all I can hear anymore. Just like “Wonderful Christmas Time” will infect you this season, despite every precaution you take–there is not enough Purell nor thick enough headphones in existence, I’m sorry–“Seer procrastinates because she is lazy” is a catchy tune that will pop up in my mind no matter what I’m doing.
I seem terrified to dig deep into my past, near and far. I don’t want to see what’s there. Most of all, I’m afraid of what I’ll be like if I strip away all the stories that I’ve been telling myself. Will I really succeed if I manage to stop the procrastinating bullshit? Or will I still not measure up? Will my best be good enough if I craft if well and over time, instead of doing it last-minute? What if I judge myself in the present, instead of according to my past? If I stop giving myself a pass because of where I came from and who raised me, am I still a good person? It’s hard to let go of justification, rationalization, minimization and catastrophizing (psychologists use this dumb word, I didn’t make it up–see here for the definition), all this bullshit I’ve learned so well. But all my excuses are threadbare and they aren’t serving me any more. Time to grow up, Seer.
I’d like to say I’m not afraid, but my refusal to do the work says otherwise. The fact that I’m completely shut done when we talk about this means that I’m scared shitless. I’m detached; I can hardly think thoughts around some of parts of my past. I can’t tell you how I feel about them, what I think about them, when they happened– I don’t know shit, and I was there. It wasn’t safe for me in my head when I was little (being crazy as a little kid is really scary), so I wasn’t fully present. But I’m safe now, so if I want to make peace with it, I need to process what the little girl couldn’t.
I want to stop breaking the good things I have. I am a fantastic one for self-sabotage. When things go well, I smash them good, because deep down, I don’t believe I should have good things. But I’m afraid that if I don’t do it, the world will do it to me. Such a sick way of going about it. Life, I mean. Do normal people always wait for the other shoe to drop? Do they always fear impending doom when things are at their highest point? Oh.
I’m reaching my pain threshold, which means I’m fixing to do something about it. Just not yet. A little more pain, please. Just a tad. Fortunately, I’ve already got this part covered. I’m my own worst enemy. We’ll see how bad it has to get before I do something different in this area.