Keep telling your story

She: Keep telling your story.

Me: I'm so tired. But I'm full of stories, ideas. Every day they're bubbling up from somewhere/nowhere deep inside. Every night as I'm falling asleep, every morning when I wake up, sometimes in my sleep, have ideas that seem brilliant, and then I lose them. They're gone, or seem lame, and I get defeated. Worst, I second-guess myself, and start drowning in that horrible overwhelming sneering "Who cares what you've got to say?"

It really is like a dark blanket that drops over my head, blotting me out, shutting me up, forcing me to be nobody. It comes and goes. I know it's not the truth. I know it's just doubt or fear or a primal survival tactic. I'm a chameleon, or a moth or insect, disappearing into nothing, making myself invisible.

She: And yet you've got a drive to write.

Me: I know. It's ironic. It's cruel. It's funny. It's kind of embarrassing. I've wanted to be a writer since I was a child. I have been a writer since I was a child. But it feels like I've never really let myself believe that.

It's a theme -- not owning my own life, feeling like I'm not actually here, in this life. Like I'm someone else, living in a costume or something. I'm not connected to my own reality.

She: That's one of the purposes for writing. To connect yourself to your own reality.

Me: Really?

She: Yes. Definitely.

Me: Wow. When you put it like that, it gets a whole different look.

She: Yes. So keep telling your story.

Me: OK, I'm going to write how it feels to be disconnected from my own reality.

She: OK, go.

So sometimes I'm living my life, which is pretty peaceful and calm, and pretty awesome in so many ways, and I feel worried and concerned, anxious about who knows what, but that's the default feeling. Something's wrong. But then I think that if I were a journalist, writing a story about me, I would write something totally different to how I really feel. All the surface stuff is great. I am almost too embarrassed to write about how perfect this life is. I am healthy, I am fit, I do and teach yoga, I have a great working situation, I live in a lovely house with a lovely man and a lovely dog, in a beautiful city. We eat well, have the cutest garden. We travel regularly. I have lots of time to do creative things, to cook, and garden. I have lovely friends, family, neighbours. I even quit drinking two years ago --which was the one thing I thought would make my life finally perfect and happy.

(If that's not laying it on thick enough, we are building a lovely new house in Nova Scotia and we're going to move there in six months, and semi-retire, and have a whole acre of amazing fertile soil to grow food on. How fucking perfect can my life be?)

And frankly, I haven't exactly struggled or strived, or made huge sacrifices to get this life. It's kind of just worked out this way.

I feel like I'm writing about someone else. Because that person, in those paragraphs up there, should be so happy and amazed and thrilled and content. That person has absolutely no reason whatsover to be anxious, or blocked, or worried or afraid of anything.

I have time to write. I have material to write about. And yet I kick and scream and get mired down about writing. Over and over again. What is that about?

These are the things I've struggled with all my life. My emotions and feeling and reactions seem to have absolutely no connection at all to my reality.

She: Those feelings and suffering are your reality too.

Me: They just seem so invalid.

She: What do you mean?

I mean that I feel like my emotional self is so disconnected, so far behind the game, so completely not in sync with the rest of me. Part of me is growing up and thriving. The other part of me is cowering in a corner with my head covered, freaking out.

I had this idea the other day to write a story or blog post called "Wise Me". I feel like wise me is the one who's quit drinking and teaches yoga and goes to work and keeps the household humming along, and has relationships with people. Wise me does all the normal stuff and the hard stuff. Then there's emo me who's dragging along in the dust, whimpering and cry-babying, and feeling all freaked and terrified. About nothing really. About nothing. I used to do all sorts of things to pacify her. Drink to numb out the pain, get lost in endless mindless TV, socialise aimlessly, nap obsessively. But mostly drink. And recently I've stopped doing all those things. So the struggle is just more obvious, more constant. But I still just want it to stop. It's so exhausting.

She: Who wants it to stop? Wise you?

Me: No. I think she's cool with it. She gets it. She knows it's just how humans are. This is how we suffer.

You know, the times I most wanted to drink alcohol -- drink with some urgency -- was after doing long yoga sessions. I remember walking up the hill after the weekend workshops or training sessions, desperate for a cold white wine. Pouring myself one as soon as I got in the door, and pretty much sculling it. I could feel it tingle through my blood stream and start to dull me down, numb me out. I'd drink more till I couldn't feel so much. Yoga got me in touch with myself, my feelings, and it was very very weird and odd and frightening. Uncomfortable. Drinking took care of that.

Now I have nothing to take care of that. But it's still happening. I don't know what to do instead. Crochet? Drink tea? Do I just need to experience whatever this anxiety is, and let it work itself out? Is that the answer? Is there an answer? Are these even questions?

NEXT: The screaming baby