#get past my shaming self-talk in that environment. i have genuinely found repeating that line to myself as a reminder so helpful

[sensitiveaangel]

the line from the bear where carmy says (paraphrasing) “you’re going to make mistakes — not because you’re you, just because shit happens” has genuinely become a personal mantra in my journey towards being less of a perfectionist

[theramblingonesie]

Through The Lens of a Juice-Bruiser

It’s incredible how quickly one’s life can change when they start saying yes.  Granted, I’m almost always saying yes, so shit’s almost always getting weird.

My yes’s have brought me back to Mexico, where I’ve been met with a lot of no’s, some radical gear-shifting, and a lot of time-outs. This seems to be the relationship Mexico and I have worked out with each other.  While in time-out, I’ve had a lot of time to think about who I am now, who I’m becoming, and what I want at this stage of life.  This kind of reflection isn’t particularly out of the norm for me, but with this current quietness in my environment, the lack of distractions have given volume to the truth in how unprepared I am.

Saying you want or are going to do something is not enough.  You need to be aligned with it down to your core.  In the next few years, I wanna do some big things.  But how am I going to be able to do big things when I think and feel so small?  With all of these dreams, plans and ambitions, why am I allowing so much space for self-sabotage? How can I be in service to the healing and betterment of others when I’m my own worst Babadook?

I’ve been binge-reading/watching/listening to all things birth-related while I go through my doula certification.  I’m geeking the eff out on this subject.  One of the amazing places the research has taken me is into the idea of conscious conception.  Real nifty stuff.  And where *that* took me was to a sharp detour right into healing my own social and sexual trauma.

Barf.

No, actually, it’s really good. I’m ready.  In a couple of days I’ll publicly post my other blog that I wrote while leading up to this point.

I found a woman named Layla Martin.  Look her up. She’s this happy, real-talk, badass sex educator who is doing good things in the world to help all folks of all preference and orientation heal themselves and live more present, ecstatic lives.  I’m not usually, if ever, one for guru-types.  I think 99.9% are shams and they usually make my skin want to turn into snakes that eat each other and then die.  But this woman keeps it so authentic, and maintains her own vulnerability in a way that I can super get with, and so I totally encourage everyone to check her out.

She offers a series of exercises on self-love and confidence, which I really, reallyreallyreallyREALLY need. With the peace, space and personal freedom I feel when I’m traveling, I thought now would be a great opportunity to try and develop some new habits, so I’ve been trying to do yoga every morning and then meditate while applying some of her techniques.

One of them, a very commonly known one that’s been used forever by every therapist known to this universe, is looking at yourself in the mirror and saying “I love you”.

EWWWWW NOOOOOOO WHYYYYYYY

I CAAAAANNN’TT

NOT THAT OOONNNEE PLEEAASSEE DON’T MAKE MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

Sigh.

I’ve been putting that one off. But this morning I knew I had a long day of being out in the world, and had no desire to battle my beastly anxiety in public, so I broke out the big guns and did all of the damn exercises.  I ate my chocolate and banana, drank water, did yoga, then sat down to meditate. After a few minutes, I opened my eyes, looked up into the mirror and said, “I love you.”

Omg, it felt awful.

“Who fucking does shit like this?  This is some rock bottom BS.  I’m like that neurotic middle-aged man who just got fired for being a drunk, and his wife left him, and he’s trying to put himself back together from his mom’s couch. I’m not that guy!”

“Oh yeah? Who is that guy?” the little voice in my head asked.

“Pathetic.  People who boast about loving themselves are weak and arrogant.”

“Wow. Wow…”

“Don’t judge me!”

“Okay, let’s play the mirror game. When you’re in a disempowered place, how do you view yourself?”

“Weak and arrogant.”

“Interesting.”

“NO IT’S NOT.”

“Sounds like your fears are trying to trick you out of feeling confident, because you might actually stop sabotaging yourself and have to live a healthy, fulfilling life. We can’t have that now….”

“Crap. Okay, I’ll do the exercise.”

I backtracked and tried a different exercise to lead up to that one.  It was a visualization of my younger self, and how I would tell her that I love her.  Unexpectedly, I started crying.  I was crying for how hurt I was, and for how relieved I was to hear kind, compassionate words from myself.  When I opened my eyes, I tried again.  

“I love you”, I said. And I could see in my eyes that I meant it. It wasn’t like those times in the past where I’ve gone through the motions of the exercise, like someone who is at the end of a relationship but doesn’t know how to get out.  This was genuine, and it shocked me.  I repeated it until it reached every piece of me, and I then I was ready to begin my day.

I floated off to the farmer’s market to get some fresh veggies. I felt light, I felt sweet, I felt calm and totally at ease in my body.  Food is magic to me, so going to the market is like praying.  I get stupid excited about kale and tomatoes every time like it’s my first time.  I was even a good little shopper and returned the glass bottles from the juice I bought the week before.

Or so I thought.

Everything was going so well.  I was just about to give the vendor my money for the new juice, and SMASH!!!! My purse had apparently hit a bottle on the table while my back was turned, and glass and blueberry juice went everywhere.  The people around fell quiet.

I wanted to die.

All of my work, all of that self-love, coaching on how to hold yourself in compassion when you feel shame or social awkwardness: DESTROYED.

I froze. I made weird nervous puppy sounds.  The vendor told me not to worry about it, so I ran away, and spent the next 20 minutes emotionally tearing my guts out and running them through a meat grinder while my brain manifested 1,000 school children pointing and laughing at me.  I kept kicking myself for being a stupid American, how people like me are the reason why the world especially hates white Americans.  How everyone thinks I’m an idiot because my language skills are poor, but now I’m also clumsy and careless on top of it. Dogs would walk by and my head would say “that dog won’t even look at you because it knows you’re Satan.”

Eventually I stood up. When I ran away, I ran to the furthest end of the market, so I had to go all the way back through to leave.   I reminded myself to chill out and to start over. I faked my body language until my attitude caught up with it: shoulders back, soft face, deep breath, gentle walking. By the time I got to the end, a table with sweet little potted plants caught my eye.  The vendor was incredibly kind, and he smiled brightly while he enthusiastically told me all about his gardening practice.

“Right,” I reminded myself. “You’re allowed to accept kindness.”

After I paid, he asked me if I like mandalas.  Curious, I said yes.  He picked up a beautiful little stone that he had hand-painted, and offered it to me as a gift.

On the most basic level, this was a very sweet gesture that I deeply appreciated, especially after the violent lashing I had just given myself over juice.

(Juice. C’mon.)

(Okay, it was never actually about juice, but still, c’mon.)

On a greater level, this moment of kindness felt like a tiny kiss from the universe, like when you’re a little kid who falls off her bike, and your mom picks you up, kisses the little scrape on your knee, and cheers you on when you hop back up and keep riding. It was a good moment to understand how deeply I emotionally abuse myself; how downright mean I am.  No wonder I attract assholes and shitty situations into my life.  My most important line of defense is flipping me the middle finger and pissing in my lemonade!

I went home and posted about my new pet plant.  It barely got any traction online.  My brain went back into turbo-hate mode.  “Nobody likes you; why do you try to take up space?”

Omg, self! Stop!

I grabbed a book, took my dress off, and laid out on the terrace in the sun.  I didn’t want to try any exercises.  I just wanted to recalibrate on my own as a normal human. I reminded myself of all the risks I’ve taken in the past couple years, how my life is abnormal, and how painful/confusing/disorienting it can be to separate yourself from your former life and the friends in it.  I reminded myself that I chose to change, even though this choice didn’t feel like much of a choice if I wanted to be true to myself. If I want this change to be worth it, if I’m serious about answering the call, then I have to figure out a way to stop being a bully to myself so I can start truly living.  I reminded myself that I don’t have to be the best, or the coolest, or the most impressive.  I don’t actually owe anyone anything.  Right now, I just have to feel confident that I will lead myself to safe, healthy choices, and that I’m worthy of inhabiting my body and the spaces it delivers me to. That’s enough.  Everything else will fall in line.

I got up and made my way to an alternative, underground art collective that was having an art sale event. Even though my inner little sad dude tried to say it was okay if I stayed home, I knew it was important to go. My going to this event was an exercise in self-love.  I was ready to meet other local artists.  I wanted to stand in front of something beautiful, something inspiring.  I wanted to meet and chat with other women, and other weirdos.  I was ready to move outside of the current trend of only hanging out men who are drunk and lie in hopes of fucking me; playing another round of “let’s trick the stupid gringa”.  I was ready to socialize because I’m excited to, not just because I’m lonely.

I went, and it was amazing. I was surrounded by art of all mediums, and the beautiful minds that created them.  People were incredibly friendly, and I got several cards and phone numbers.  I spoke mostly to other women, which was such a relief.  I told one vendor about “The Slutcracker” and “pussy galaxy” from back in Boston when I saw her stickers of people in various explicit positions of having sex with the night sky, and she squealed so loudly with joy that it made me feel like I could relax and be my authentic self in this space.  On my way out, one of the organizers told me that I should come hang out at the collective during the week and see if there’s any way I’d want to get involved.

Again, a kiss from the universe.  I took the time to be kind, follow my happiness, and I was rewarded with a beautiful, fulfilling afternoon that gave me a glimpse into the incredible life I could continue building here if I remain in my truth, and in love.

Because here’s a cool thing that sounds so basic and cliché, but is rather profound in action—

When you love yourself, you can love and accept others.  

Sometimes, however, like an SSRI for depression, we need a little outside love to get over the hump and get inspired.  Meaning, you don’t need high self-esteem to know love, but boy howdy does having it deepen the experience.  Self-worth is magical for transforming co-dependency to true love.

When I got home, I flopped down on my bed, exhausted and starving.  The amount of energy I had spent trying to pull my shit together and socialize had left me happy, but also totally depleted.  I pepped myself up enough to walk downstairs to check the broth I had made the night before.  I had already ordered takeout because the idea of cooking seemed impossible, but next thing I knew, I was cooking a new soup.  Every time I opened the fridge, I saw another ingredient that made me so excited. I greeted them like they were beloved friends.

“Eee!! Hi Rosemary! Yay, hello Beans!!! Oooo, Lime, lookin’ good, lookin’ good. TOMATOES, YOU ARE FABULOUS!”

I do this. I’m constantly thinking outloud and talking to inanimate objects. Sometimes I tell myself it’s because maybe I’m a Buddhist or something and believe there’s spirit flowing through all things.  But Buddhists probably don’t stop in the middle of a room and honk for no reason. It feels great. Try it.

5 minutes before my delivery arrived, I realized I had whipped up a glorious soup.  Oops…kinda.  I found myself back in the space I was before The Great October Juice Tragedy, where food was magical.  Each ingredient I purchased was done so with special care, with consciousness, and excitement for how it would taste.  I don’t have much money, so every bit was deliberate.  Making that soup became less about physical nourishment, because I already had food on the way.  It was about a joyous celebration of good choices; each choice, each ingredient being another gesture to love myself.  I didn’t feel guilty about the abundance because none of it was a waste.  Now I have yummy soup leftovers to look forward to without the effort of cooking this week.

Another exercise Layla suggests is to do something, every day, where the action becomes an exercise in self-love.  She compares it to going to the gym and working out.  Whether it’s lighting a candle, putting on your clothes for the day, or sipping your coffee—with each motion, say “I love you” to yourself.  I decided to do that with soup.

Slurp. I love you.

Sluuurp. Oh man, YUM. I freaking love you!

Sluuurp! Ahhh. Yeah. I love you.  Thank you for such a great meal.  That was really kind and thoughtful.

I ate my delivery sandwich, too, heh.  I think I needed the calories because today was exhausting. I learned a lot, observed a lot, and I look forward to continuing this work so that I can keep getting out of my own way, stop putting up with garbage, and have the energy to do what I gotta goddamn do.  I expect to still have some rough patches and tough days ahead, but that’s to be expected when you’re rewiring 20+ years of unhealthy thought.  While I’m practicing this in the emotional realm, this is truly an exercise in neuroplasticity.  That ish takes time.  Whether things are “good” or “bad” is less pressing for me right now than simply being clear: setting the intention, and digging in to do the work to follow through.  When I’m clear, I see results.  When I’m clear, my muck falls away to create a channel that love can course through. Love manifests itself as focus and care. Also when I’m a clear channel for love, I feel connected to my environment and the people therein.  Being kind, being compassionate, dedicating to learning, and being aware of my carbon footprint come naturally, because I can feel the web.  What happens out there tugs on me, too.  When I’m aware of this web, I can see my path, and that’s when dreams become reality.

That sounds oversimplified. Don’t approach this in an oversimplified way.  Make room for the journey to be one hell of a mother fucking for real for real journey. Find peace in being wrong. You’re totally gonna be wrong at some point/s, haha.

*hug*

If you suffer from negative self-talk like I do, I hope that my own stumbling through this helps you to know that you’re not alone.  If you want to go look in the mirror and cry and say “I love you” to yourself, I highly recommend it.  It’s gonna feel super weird.  But just know, there’s another little weirdo (me) out there somewhere who is really proud of you and not judging you for it.  Reading back over this, I’m noticing all the different times and ways I mention self-love. Maybe I’ll start journaling a daily self-love log to keep count, and try to fill that jar up like a piggy bank. Let me know if you do, too!

I think if we’d all love ourselves just a little bit more, genuinely and fully, there’d be a whole hell of a lot less douchebagery in the world.

But even with that,

There’s still a chance that you will crash into a table of juice.

Deal with it.

Special thanks to my goofy bf for always supporting me (even though I wish he’d make fun of me more), and for giving me this silly blog title.  If you want to learn more about Layla Martin, visit https://layla-martin.com