A Practice of Forgiveness

I’m overwhelmed and I know it.

I know why, too — or at least I know some of the why’s.

Physically:

The cup of coffee this morning, the first real cup of coffee I’ve had in a month, and my system is jittery and nervous with the caffeine.

My environment:

The impending transition — in two days, I leave here, this home that I have finally settled into and the routine I’ve established. Leaving means packing, packing means organizing, organizing is overwhelming. I’m a scattered person. I think in scattered thoughts and I when I enter a space I scatter my belongings, always with the faint hope and idealistic goal of ‘finally being organized.’ Fuck, I don’t want to pack.

Emotionally:

Oof, where to begin with this one?

• The deflation of sharing artwork and feeling rejected and insecure.
• The sadness of leaving a space, the end of a period of time. Transition.
• The disappointment of unmet hopes and expectations. The frustration and trap of unrealistic, perfectionist, self-imposed expectations. The self-judgment.

Mentally:

Tired and judging the tired.

Etc.

And all of the old habits and impulses are rising. How many times today have I stood by the counter eating spoonfuls of peanut butter?

So.

Here is what is happening:

1. I’m feeling overwhelmed.
2. I’m judging myself for it.
3. I’m returning to old habits of self soothing.
4. I’m judging myself for it.

What to do?

I am always thinking about what I should do, what to do next, and we live in a world of do do do.

I’m not always going to ‘do it right’ (…and there isn’t ever really one ‘right’ thing).

Nor will I always be with it mindfully. Sometimes overwhelm is overwhelming. It’s dissociative and disembodying.

So I’ll stand by the counter with the peanut butter, maybe grab some chocolate too. I’ll watch trashy tv while distracted with other tabs open. I’ll look at the papers scattered on the floor and I’ll feel paralyzed by it all.

But I’m going to forgive myself.

I don’t need to know all of the why’s or the what’s of how I am feeling. I don’t need to understand it or explain. Sometimes the question isn’t ‘what to do,’ and instead it is: what would this be like without judgment? Can I forgive myself?

I forgive you.

I forgive you.

(and that was 25 minutes)