A part of why “just listen to your heart” doesn’t work is because people tend to get their minds mixed up with what their heart and soul is actually telling them.
The mind and the ego both for all its time in existence has tried to mimic the heart and the soul. The more that is found out about emotions and spirituality and things like that, the mind and ego will create a rigid pattern so that they can follow. This is because we still adhere to certainty, we still want a guide to present to us our vulnerabilities and moralities.
“Listening to your heart” only works when you get to know how your body works and what it communicates to you. If your body is rooted, it will naturally give rise to the heart’s song. The mind can go round and round in circles for years before ever touching a toe into the heart’s pond.
Continue reading Why Listening to Your Heart Only Works When You Listen to Your Body
I used to want to feel normal. That’s all I ever wanted. Now I see that my perspective and definition of feeling normal was really just to have a sense of belonging, a right to be here. No explanation needed for why I exist.
I’ve equated the feeling to how babies in their first years of life start to learn how to manipulate and exert their influence onto the outside world. How you can see them growing more and more aware of their own power and joy. To feel “normal” to me meant just that – such alignment with your physical reality and the freedom to know you are capable of bending it and being a part of it. A dance between you as an individual and the larger world around you. That you don’t need to hide or feel hindered.
And I kept seeing that everywhere in others, except in me. I wanted so much to be someone else in order to be free.
But by accessing all the blockages I’ve been knocked with and learning to heal and bring my own inner child through more, I’m beginning to sense the rightness of my being more. And sometimes that’s all you need to start with : just the sensation of having the right to be. Quiet gestation.
So I guess the world normal wasn’t the most adequate word at all. All I wanted was to be so exquisitely blissful in my own inner world and being able to touch the skin of the outer one. Magic within the ordinary.
At some point in our lives, we tend to recreate the traumas or patterns we experienced in childhood. Maybe once, maybe more than once… There’s that cliché but it’s true. We play out all the pain and the longing and the desires we’ve had. This happened to me when I was 13.
I was with a boy who not surprisingly mirrored lots of the same emotional difficulties as me. He was an on and off again runaway/kid who got kicked out, who lived in group homes and was involved in gangs. He dabbled in physical self-harm before he met me and I was already a few months into my own path of cutting before I met him. We met at the perfect conjunction where all of this expedited in me. And I must’ve seemed so crazy now looking back because my head also throbbed with notions of romanticism and emotional fantasies.
Continue reading the relationship I had when I was 13.
I guess the thought of that came to me “randomly” one day while driving in my car. It was weird realizing that that fact didn’t even cross my mind for so long. It was as if I was too busy focusing on what other things I needed to improve on, what other things I was lacking, the ideals I was not meeting yet. I hadn’t stopped to give myself any credit or acknowledgment for the things I did progress in and the actual difference in the quality of life I am living now compared to 7 years ago, when my world was much, much smaller and denser.
I cried out of a mixture of joy, disbelief, and amazement. Because to go from hating yourself so much and feeling so much internal frustration with the inability to cope that you turn it against your own body and mind was really a battle. Sitting here and being aware of how I, in contrast now, can physically recoil from even thinking of myself doing that is… something I am very grateful for.
Continue reading I haven’t cut myself in 7 years.