Quink sent me an email to check on me today. I told her where I was at (in a bad neighborhood–in my mind), and I decided I would go to yoga for the first time in I don’t know how long. All the way there I told myself that it wasn’t too late to start over.
That’s where I go, you know. It’s too late. It’s too late! Oh dear. I’ve fucked up too much. It’s too late to make things right. Well, it isn’t. So long as I’ve got a breath left in my body, the fight is on. Don’t lose the fight. That’s what I learned from the “Surviving Edged Weapons” video (not for the weak of stomach). And don’t fuck with the Gorton’s fisherman when he’s coming down off meth. Trust him, yes, fuck with him, hell no. Really, I learned so much from it, I can’t tell you.
So my inner dialog on the way there is all about how I can do this deal called life. I am a good person. I can make this right. I can take care of this business. I can fight this bill. I can get my taxes done. I can make this right. It is going to be okay. It’s okay right now. Even if I have to pay it, it’s okay. This is all right. I shit bigger than this. I am a good friend. Real Stuart Smalley shit. And you know what? When I’m really at risk for falling down, it really helps me float back up to the surface.
Yoga was good. I pushed myself, but I was able to keep up, mostly. Zorro Smitty is right, your muscles have memory. I went there, really, because I needed to snap out of these blues that I’m all steeped in since I got that bill. I’ve felt really fucked up, and more than I expected to. I’ve gotten a $1300 health insurance bill before, and I just paid it and sighed and said, “Tant pis for Seer.” So why was I so twisted over this one?
We did a lot of hip openers tonight. Since I’m not fucking anyone, my hips are tight as a church window. (What? It’s the truth.) Anyways, Forrest yoga teachers often say there’s a lot of hurt stored in your hips. I don’t know if this is true, but I had a breakthrough when I walked through the door.
I’m feeling really fucking victimized right now. All the hurt I felt while I was in the hospital, and all the hurt I’ve felt at the hands of my doctor, and all the issues I’ve had with medical care in general, and the problems I’ve had with moving–er, not being able to move, they’re all stored up in me, and this bill triggered it all, plus there’s the added stressor of the bill on top of it. So I’m feeling extremely put upon. Poor little me. Let me get out my cross made of plastic forks and Krazy glue. Oh, I’m such a fucking victim. Poor Seer.
After I realized this, I cried for about ten seconds, then started laughing at myself. Victim! No, I am a volunteer. I sign up for my powerlessness. I indulge myself in it. I can’t do anything about my situation. I am so fucked–they did it to me! They hurt me. I’m so wounded. Yeah. That was then, and this is now. Let me do what I can to better my situation in the fucking present, because feeling like it’s too late because my past hurt me is bullshit. Yeah, Seer, you got hurt–get in line. Everybody hurts, sometimes. Let’s keep it moving.
I’m just tired of crowing about The Hospital. I’m tired of this shit. I’m ready to move on. I’m spiritually and emotionally constipated and I’m ready to take a big shit and leave this stuff behind. I did some writing on it tonight and am ready to see my therapist. There’s a yoga and depression workshop coming up in February I’m going to take. There’s action in my future and hope in my heart.
Moving the fuck on. You heard me. I’m moving on.