The Tales of Virago-- A Beautiful Mess

As I have been writing and reflecting on my past week felt compelled to share an experience I had while driving a couple days ago: To give you some background: One day a bout six weeks ago my turn signals just decided at random to stop working consistently (because when you drive an old Pontiac if one light comes loose or goes out then all your lights stop wanting to work-- this time my high beams came loose from the duct taped holders. Classy, I know). Needless to say-- since they worked some of the time, and I didn't really have the time to fix them with working, and the lack of evening availability at the mechanic-- I waited and procrastinated because they worked sometimes, which you know-- the majority of the time is good enough, right?!   Fast forward to last weekend, and my lights died altogether when I was two hours from home in Madisonburg (and thank God I made it home alive and as a bonus-- ticket free), but of course my lights are fixed now after that (mis...

      I like pain, but I don't handle it very well. Yes, you did in fact read that correctly. Continuing with that thought-- it might be more appropriate to instead state that I appreciate pain.      Our lives are a culmination of mountain top highs, and deep valley lows. There are times within the valle y when it seems unfathomable to reach the mountaintop-- despite having perhaps been there many times before. The rain arrives quickly, leaving no room for preparation, and the storms that accompany take no mercy on the small pieces of dignity you thought remained. These storms take people and bring out the " ugly ," yes; but I want you to stop and reframe this for a moment because those very same storms are so vital to the people we are, and continually becoming.      We become a perception of " ugly " in the dark trials of our lives because pain is a difficult burden to carry. We fail to show others and yes-- even ourselves c...

     I spent many summers at sleepaway camp, and have spent almost as many summers in return working as a camp counselor of whatever variety. One of the things I remember most from my years as both a camper, and now as a counselor is the stoplight system. It's used primarily when campers are doing team building exercises, or when a child is getting ready to begin a solo activity that might be particularly challenging. Logically, green zones are where a camper feels totally collected, whereas yellow zones typically entail more fear, perhaps some panic, and definitely a bit of discomfort, and the red zone is where we see children break down-- or as the counselors would describe it-- the hysterical, pee your pants scared zone.         It's great to know campers are comfortable, but as counselors-- we have always been more focused on pushing campers into the yellow zone. The place of uncertainty. The line that challenges a person's fear and their abi...

      My daily commute is two hours, and there is not much to say beyond that-- with the exception of  a few highlights including flying deer, car accidents, and the occasional middle finger-- incidentally committed by both parties if I am being an honest writer. Save for a Spotify playlist and angry drivers-- the car occupied by me, myself, and I lies quiet.      Quiet is a perfect place for big thoughts.       This morning as I made the commute, there were several accidents-- a daily occurrence as of lately. As my Spotify playlist moved, but the living hell of traffic remained stationary (come on people-- pay attention!!) I could feel frustration rising, as my face gave way to red before eventually crying on the free way. You know-- the cry that isn't from just the relevant incident really, but actually from that annoyance, and the four days-- or months of really big things prior where you didn't cry? Yeah-- that cry. T...

A sense of nagging percolates the mind. It is a war between logic and emotion. Mindfulness and urge. To resist or to purge. A purging of the body and one’s own inhibition to want and need, but there is a small voice that still exists-- reminding ourselves that we are enough as is. There is an overwhelming anxiety we cannot seem to surf, and it is what gets me into the mess each time. Somehow, I find it an old familiar friend. A comfortable ex boyfriend’s shirt that shouldn’t be worn, yet it always seems to find its’ way up the cool of the body once more. We sit in our shame and comfort because it is the only thing we have ever known. The only thing that could be worse is launching into a sea of unknowns, and that is precisely where recovery sits for many. For us. At least—for me. People wonder why we have held onto our disordered thoughts and habits so long, and I can tell you in my experience it relates to the anxiety of the unknown. The cycle is damning, yes, but starti...

      Each day I rise from bed it feels as if I should get a prize. Perhaps a standing ovation, or a big cup of coffee and a "great job!," but honestly-- I'd be happy with a good night's rest.      When the thought of rising seems to be a bit heavy, I think it is important to rest. Otherwise, burnout is imminent-- but as always, I am not so good at heeding my own advice until it's a bit too late. The damage was done.           I haven't quite figured out the words to describe not only the relief, but also the unrelenting panic that race through the mind when you find out that once again, you're going to live. I believe my nine lives have been used many a time, but by grace-- I am still here.     The mind is both a beautiful and infuriating thing.        I know however, that I am not the only person who faces these challenges, and unfortunately-- I will not be the last. However, there ...

When people ask me what anxiety is like--I don't know how else to describe the emotion, so I use smoke. A fog. Light mists and grey hues gradually thicken and swallow the fixtures I once used to anchor my life. The path once certain, has now become an unrelenting black abyss I am asked to navigate. Panic begins to sink it's claws into the skin. The smoke in its' curl of black caresses my vulnerable body in an unwarranted manner. Asphyxiation gives way to surrender, as I lay down my body in what I could also describe--the meltdown. Meltdown: Defined by Webster's Dictionary as  : a rapid or disastrous decline or collapse  or      : a breakdown of self-control (as from fatigue or overstimulation)  In example: me on my bathroom floor ugly crying for three hours straight about my failure as a person and to the race of humankind. Or for no reason. ...

Nighttime showers were a conglomeration of pills, vomit, and shame. Water drips, as I unapologetically clean the drain of my "bad behaviors," attempting once again to not get caught. Day and night routines-- a clockwork called hell, but an inability to stop. I lived for the validation, but wound up with the deepest contempt towards myself, but this -- is what I receive praise for because the external world calls it beauty.  I woke up in a bed with fluorescent lights filling my eyes, but cannot remember how I got to the place. Let alone-- where I might be. I make out blurs of people who do not know me, nor I, them. Moving bodies-- quickly. Doctors shouting. Noise and panic ensue, but this all fades quickly with my consciousness as I once again kiss the twilight. I am addressed by my last name and a birthdate I do not recall having given-- but at this point it no longer matters. My other identity that remains is threading pulse-- 28, 60/38 bp, severe depleted electro...

One-point-four. There’s an average of 1.4 syllables per word in the sentence, and five words in that sentence. An average of 4.75 letters per word. It is the compensatory calculations over layers upon layers of conversation. Each miniscule detail taking its toll on the very nerves you claim to formulate your core. Syntax: you find yourself stirring at every hour, amidst each individual thought, and the microcosm of said thought. You are thinking of the words, the synonyms, and you appear with no less than three substitutions for a word- you find yourself walking in circles. Your language is one which no one else seems to speak because you are a freak . Misunderstood. Yet, you find a voice somewhere to keep speaking because you long for someone who will simply understand. It is the disarray of one simple squiggly line. Then two. A maze, but then a page that has turned black. It is the last thing you actually remember before blacking out . The bottle clutched in one hand, and ...