Done done done.

So after my win of being mortified and having big feelings and continuing to breathe and stay sober and make dinner and go to bed, I woke up. Just like that.

“Self,” I said, “I am sick of this shit.”

“What shit?” my ego said innocently.

“The shit of feeling good or bad or mad or glad or high or low or whatever based on what’s going on around me, based on my always-imperfect perception of what’s going on around me.”

“Oh,” my ego said, “that shit.”

“Yeah, I’m done done.  I’m done with all my inner stories about being not enough or too much, the shame and sadness and big stormy thought spirals about having not enough, or too much, or wanting more, or doing with less, chasing validation, chasing enough-ness through the eyes of others who don’t even know I’m giving them that kind of power, who don’t even want that power.  It’s unkind, actually, to put my okayness in the hands of unsuspecting strangers and loved ones.  Unkind and ineffective — no one’s picking up the unwanted gift of owning my psyche.  It’s mine.”

So now what?  I’m gonna keep going.

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