Milk it: Death
replace with a greenery image without me in it
Death of the self.
Just coming back from connecting with every repressed emotion in me that spits, spills, and pours hatred, which is really festered anger, disappointment, and pain, the grief of looking at my dad’s face every evening knowing that he’s spent 12 hours each day working, and I? I’ve been learning about fickle things, like mental health, getting outside and gathering my daily chi energy, and doing yoga to loosen up and dance with life in a way that feels less heavy, like the boulders he carries on his back daily, and more light, freeing, and connected to the worldly and social events of our entire planet, its awakening, and more.
Grief. Immense. grief. There were so many people in the restaurant today within energetic resonance of my battle with my dad, which started in me asking him if I could have $2000 to start my business. DO I need that money? I realized, after all the claims I’ve made, the densities I alchemized into outpouring of deep salty tears, that I need help. I do. I’ve been wearing shells encased in armor instead of building bridges of healthy communication, saying what I mean, and respecting the other person. I also realize that through everything… I love my dad. I don’t hate him. I’m queer and exploring how to make connections that serve and validate me, and feel my feelings instead of burying them so they’ll make stops and arise in other places — like the internet, which has in the past attracted me power and money hungry people, disempowered, and triggered my lack of healthy boundaries, inability to communicate my true feelings, or give myself rest. I just feebly told my mom bits of what happened with having sushi with my dad earlier today. Do I need that money? I realize that I framed it (also, I probably could have let myself process it more before telling my mom, maybe just passed the poison, and honestly - that’s .. ) as my dad’s investment in me. The biggest thing that’s been hurting me inside is that I feel he doesn’t believe in me — not in my success, my timeline (so I haven’t even written one), or my joys, my passions, my hobbies. It’s stuck in my mind, the story that he doesn’t believe in me — and if everything fell away today, i’d have to stand on my own two feet.
That’s what he wants for me.
I wish I didn’t tell my mom lol but oh well. I’m fucking sad and tired and done with understanding things in a twisted way, and I don’t want to manipulate people anymore to get my way. I just don’t understand what I don’t understand right now — and maybe that’s fine.
Milking Death.
This came through on a walk around the block after our talk, and coming home. I — ah! see that respecting my dad and I’s bodies would have been just letting my mom go and do laundry. Keeping secrets is probably a good thing, maybe. I still need to learn boundaries, and learn how to not be… what I continue to be, to others. I have this idea to hold myself to a higher standard — which means essentially stepping into this idea of milking death, which essentially recognizes that I am going to die someday. That death is the only certain thing in my life, and how I get there is indeed up to how I channel my energy. Maybe — it’s not taxes I wanna be counting, part time useless jobs I want to be channeling all my energy into while getting like minimum wage plus tips back. Maybe, it’s writing for my blog every sensation and chance that I get, because I don’t feel comfortable sharing myself with others right now, but want so desperately to connect with other people?
Maybe — it’s ME believing in myself and just going for things the way that I feel and know how, until the right team comes along and meets me at my energy, until we can rise together. Maybe it’s new people that will enter my life, because it’s new energy that I am drawing from. Life — rather than this fucking muck of death that’s been floating around me. “Waves” by Tame Impala, the Miguel remix, was the first song to come into my head this morning when I woke up. Am I in the shadows right now? I’ve only gone as far as I believe I can go. Is this thinking the way?
I’ve feared death: death of my parents, death of my dog, death of my cat. Truth? They give me love that I need. They see me, they have their opinions, they keep me in some kind of lanes and gutters that I think I need to survive. I don’t know if I am autistic, but I have special needs, indeed — soft spaces, quiet friends and people, and adventures on my own terms. I have huge sensitivities, and also, am learning how to communicate better. Honestly, I need to learn how to communicate better in ways that respect other people — because who knows. People respect us as much as we respect them, and acknowledge that we’re different, and come from different worlds or maybe have different agendas/energies/life paces, but that doesn’t mean that we should be out here disrespecting each other. I don’t know. I hold so much resentment, and that resentment was masking a deep pain: that I wasn’t enough for my dad. that he would constantly compare me to other people’s kids, what they were up to in life, how they were working part time jobs, and getting their cars fixed for a few hundred dollars, so he would help them out. and he did. he’s a good guy, my dad — the entire generations of his long-time clients have come back, so he’s not only been with (on his own terms and through his own heart) the bedside of his older patients/clients, oops, when they were in the hospital, but knew their daughters and sons and children; their children’s children; extended family, friends, and relatives, and grandchildren.
My dad is more than a mechanic, he was/is my hero. And I forgot and forget about all of that when I look into his tired, sad, exhausted, confused eyes every night, mixed feelings in both of our bodies, and I feel tiredness, sadness, exhaustion. I look away, because I do not want to be held responsible for making him feel that way. Then, I feel ashamed, wondering what is so wrong with me as a child that he can’t even hold eye contact or show he loves me. His physical affections I turn down, usually; I can’t really bear to have his arm around me, when the same curious face welts up into a look of despair anytime I walk around the house without underwear on. I guess… it’s a toughie to crack. Him, with his culture, me with my freedom and flow, and desire to change the word through my self-expression. He can’t understand me. I can’t understand him, and have a hard time seeing him, through his rigidity. I’ve written something like this before… to my first therapist him and I saw together, Diane. She didn’t understand it, either — we wasted about $3000 going to see her, or more, and obviously i’m still bitter. but does that discount the fact that I’d seen her separately one time, to share with her how rigid he is outside of sessions, and deep down wanted to get on her good side, to maybe see that someone COULD be on my side in our dynamic? Who is my dad without my mom? How did they grow together, how will they grow old together once I’m gone? Is there a reason I don’t want to be independent right now… is there love I’m hoping for, from my parents, that mirrors those feelings I wanted as a child?
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I told him it wasn’t that I didn’t want to work — I just didn’t want to be catcalled at work, spoken to or treated weirdly, etc. That’s happened at every workplace I’ve worked at — cafe, restaurant, mostly the part-time jobs — and it’s not something I can explain to him, while he looks into my pretty face and at my slender shoulders, the ones he makes me cover up usually, without feeling incredibly uncomfortable and unsure how to continue; my voice literally chokes, like it’s caught on the branches in my throat, and hangs around like linen in the breeze. Except it’s not a breeze — it’s a vast ocean of air, wanting to be released, and finding way too many pockets of pressure and mini tunics or tornadoes around my chest before it gets there; experiences held in the creases of my hips that other men have touched, how do I talk to my dad like he’s a real person, not like the ghost of a role and figure of the person I cried for when I was very young, fifth grade, crying because I didn’t know when I would see him again, searching for him through that open sliver of a window and hiding my tears as I watched and waited for him to walk back around the school for the second and last time before he went to work — the auto shop, a huge, dark, looming mechanics place that was full of scroungy dirty guys with oil on their faces, hands, and clothes; who leaned at cars and looked at women and stood up a little more straight when they saw a child, but maybe, like dad sometimes insinuated, wouldn’t be so gentle with other women? or was that the story I’d created in my mind, as I listened to horror stories and let the trickles of mom’s scary nighttime shows that i’d always screeched and closed off my eyes and ears so that vibration wouldn’t get into me — god knows, I HAD NO IDEA how or why she would watch scary shows with kids around growing up, and all that she’d said was, “well I know it’s not real! so i’m not scared. :D” as my sister and I howled in anguish, silently, with each other; me, loudly a lot more than Amanda.
these memories all crawling up as I look at his inset sad eyes, and feel the familiar anger, anguish, and fire of all the fights he could have stopped between me and my mom, the way he constantly enabled her through his learned helplessness, and yet, the burning love and memories of our childhood and how much love we shared growing up: the paternal mark and the childhood innocence that I clearly have alchemized and “lost” in his eyes — though again, God knows my innocence, I have no idea how to explain to him what I’ve been through. he says, his eyes say, keep trudging on. I had to fight. I had to. you have to, too — you have no idea how easy you have it.
and me, with a lineup of possible depression and anxiety; dealing with the societal media portrayals of health, wellness, and weight gain and going along my journey of self-esteem which makes doing DOING things possible; eating healthier and giving in to eating meat because I’m living with my parents now, and they probably wouldn’t have it ever any other way (a HUGE distance for me to close, since i’d raised myself vegan at 13-15, and stayed that way until 20/21). I don’t remember the exact years since the guilt and shame of plunging into foods that weren’t so healthy became apart of coming home for me — the guilt, the shame, of harming animals and supporting factory farming and environmental cruelty was something that never — actually MADDENED my parents to talk about at home — was an on-topic topic at home. it was scarily unentertained growing up, so because of that, I developed a bit of an inner military toward myself.
in truth I am very thankful for my parents raised me: it isn’t lost on me that I currently live in a home, a big one, with an abundance of food (most of which I wouldn’t eat or buy for myself, which has unwillingly retrained my taste buds and i’ve only begun to accept it in the last month or so, finally wrenching my arm to fill in the spaces that I’d so keenly cut out before, dropping away meat, unhealthy processed foods, etc, the things that I associated with my emotions I simply spent in nature and it took so much awareness to shift away from comfort eating through and because of that). and now, being home, it’s been hard — hard to eat the same food and see how it affects my body; hard to not be able to explain any of this to my parents without them staring at me like I’m speaking cosmopolitan and have been overly whitewashed, when maybe, they also wouldn’t understand kwashiorkor and IBS; hard to eat meat and have to play dumb and see it as normal and even enjoy it. I feel like a giant fly, spy, shark, spider, bird, tiny bird, bug, bee, tree, flower, and trunk, and human, all at once. I really don’t know which way is up or down sometimes; regulating my NS has been insane, since only lately have I begun to find appreciation for something like having my own bedroom, since it’s right by the highway and GOSH am I complaining again??? in truth — the windows. living by the highway is a noisekiller. I hate it. it’s like falling asleep next to land mines going off every second with different energy; on a good day, it’s like the ocean with cars, and yeah, I am being negative right now haha
Belief: inner belief.
According to the Merriam-Webster: belief is a state or habit of mind in which trust or confidence is placed in a person or thing (noun). What is my belief right now?
Lately — it’s been that because A and B have happened, likely, C will equal A & B. Because I’ve failed in the past, it’s likely that I’ll fail in the future and am not actually destined to be successful.
How can I change this?
Changing our beliefs is the most challenging part… Is it? Does that mean everything changes? Or — is it the way that I see the world and speak with myself…? And others?
The belief that I am loved, that I am confident that my business will work out (and that Dad will lend me $2000 as an investment or belief in me and my success), and that I will find and meet the right people — with or without modern spirituality, that’s NOT predecessor to any kind of success. I trust in my body, I trust in my body’s wisdom, and I trust in and love myself. I believe that I will be/am successful. I believe. And I believe that I can lose weight! I believe that I have access to abundance, we all do — that abundance is our birthright, and so is happiness (the experience of lasting wellness, success, and love through successful relationships, to people, places, and things / the outside world). It’s my belief that slowing down, resting, and leaning into my spiritual practices are getting me there — and so they are. It’s my belief (was) that I could somehow get “there” faster — I see now, that I was beating around the big emotional bush. The true shadow work is showing up fully to the moment, and noticing what is here.
I believe that the most positive course right now for me and this person I’ve been thinking about is healing. Healing, someone, is not something I can do without someone’s consent. Healing myself is the more meaningful course of my time, energy, and awareness: so that I will do. I notice that my calls to the universe have been ones of desperation; I’m thankful for this time and space to heal myself, and attract the inspirational partner that I so deserve ❤️
I desire to open my heart up to the world, and to show myself to intimacy. To speak of things we do not often speak of: like sex, consensual sex, nonconsensual sex and the effects of that; to understand and have relationships with family that may come from vastly different backgrounds, to share the story of how I got to being the person that I am, without sharing everything. I love carbs. I love protein. I love fat! I love my body and the nutrients that make it go round, that lean it out naturally with time, passionate energy, purpose, and positivity and movements.
I am not seeking anything right now: I’m in this deep awareness that everything is finding me as it’s meant to. Not just a person, but experiences: experiences that open me up more, heal me, clean me. Cleanse and purify my soul. I do wish to read tarot for the collective, but I personally feel I’m being prepared to do that. Right now, the language I need to accomplish my heartfelt and happiest goals, like writing about my story, are right here, top dome and foam. I am allowed to: I give myself permission to do the things, like this, that scare me the most.
It’s my awareness that even if my story told, at its best, helps one person: if I can honor my entire story, and sharing it helps even one person, I will have accomplished what I set out to do, which is help unify all of us on this planet and remind each other that we are one, we are both incomplete and complete and whole all at once, and always changing.
That even when it feels dark, trust that you are not alone.
Sometimes, I see that it may come with censorship; other times, as my therapist has asked me — I ask myself, why? Why do I feel a need to censor myself?
That’s a great question. Something I need to ask myself more often, and maybe for all of us to ask ourselves too. Rapid and open communication often brings up feelings we’ve been unwilling to admit to feeling in the first place ~ and it’s in the communication that self-discovery arises, helping us realize what’s been dragging us down in the first place. I want cheese right now. That’s fine :) I’ll have it after.
Body signals: self soothing, and hunger.
Thank you for being apart of my joy <3 I hope to connect with you again soon, and please, in the meantime, do take care ❤️🙏🏽
With a warm heart,
Christina
I am not here to “professional pave” a business for myself: I’m here to be remarkably real with everyone who encounters my work. Because for me, creating is not a “for fun” thing: it is, a necessity.
I wish I could wipe away the seriousness but all of life is a joke, and I can’t help but laugh at how seriously I’ve been taking myself this last year. Stretching myself so thinly, the jungles of preparation, for the next moment. When this moment stretches into the next, and the next, and the next — I have to ask, why am I procrastinating?
Is it the fear of being on the other side of my visualizations? Is it a lack of readiness to receive? Is it fear that I will lose money, lose hope, die, recount the deaths of people I loved close to me that left my life as I grew, the pain of all of that — I recount that, as I stand in the shadow before the greatest light of my entire life?
I have never felt more secure in myself than I do at this time, but I feel like I have no clue what I’m supposed to be doing. And now I realize. Maybe it’s already doing me. The posts that I had drafted up. The FEELINGS. Not the thinkings. The feelings.
