Restless Mind Syndrome

Last night was an usual twisting of thoughts, legs, pillows, memories, plans, analysis, grief, excitement all intertwined. I was tossing here and there and wrapping myself up in a cocoon of threads of themes.

I reset myself. I lay one hand over my heart and another on my abdomen and I slowly breathed to bring me back home.

It is my ritual. The body is home, this breath is where I rest. As I breathe out I feel along my spine for the grasping mind tension of yearning. These are obstructions, I tell myself.

Then I replay Rag and Bone man’s music in my head.¬†

“Maybe I’m foolish, maybe I’m blind.” I sing to myself. And I forgive myself for not being able to drop the drama. “I’m only human after all.”

The voice/ego searches the flat plane of the past day from my high night time perch. My eyes sweep from morning to night to see what assaults/insults have activated old wounds. I know it is not now. My mind understands that it is old scripts that are ruling me now. My terror for survival as a child resurfaces. The yawning black fear of abandonment has me pinned down and will not allow me to escape into sleep.

So much went on last night. Surfacing of grief. And the agitation dances in me as I stand on the threshold of taking bigger chances in my life.

I want to scream out, “Leave me the fuck alone! Stop pressuring me to grow. Stop tricking me into being more open and speaking out the truth that causes other’s eyes to sting.”

The distractions of smallness. The withdrawal into normal, compliant hiding in plain sight is just not available any more. I cannot stand myself. I cannot go back to what was and stay quiet. I cannot step forward into the exploding risk that calls me of being full on power. So I cling to the threshold between levels just vibrating with memories, shadow entities and the unseen bridge of stone I am called to jump blindly onto.

Most of my life has been about closing my coat so no one can see the war wounds. Most of my speech has been a guarding of the story. No one must know. And now the sense of what was, how it was, the old reliable no decision patterns is falling away. It is stale, unsatisfying.

A guest said there was “scum” under some bottles of shampoo in the shower and I was devastated. I made excuses… people have been in the house steadily for two months and trying to get into any one space is like waiting for the jump rope to turn exactly to the right moment. I missed my pain clinic injection appointment that takes two months to set up because I was talking about the stress of dealing with criticism. So I did not get there on time.

Then I went to a writer’s group and I was already fermenting with two “failures” in my vat body persona. The moderator talked about how important it is to attend conferences. That very morning I had signed up for the Penticton Conference much like you would drag a four year old to a play date who doesn’t like noisy places. I have forced myself to pay and sign up. But HE is urging me to do more of it.

So my sleep was slow in coming and I was at work releasing the octopus arms of fear and tension that would wake me up during the night. Breathe. Chant. Recognize. Allow.

I am on the verge again. And like all other times I have been on the edge of something bigger, I absolutely hate it. But what was, the old small metal toy windup movements no longer satisfy me. It is the way I move in the world. Boredom, safety, predictability become intolerable strait jackets. And what I am yearning for is causing agitating and upsetting.

Last night, I was wrestling with the grief of the transition and the excitement of knowing there is nothing I can do. I am on the move.