The Provocative Yogi

Yogi Trainer Dancer Writer

Author: Erikastraub (page 1 of 2)

Ghost…

In love with a ghost

With a memory that seems to fail me

If only you could touch me so I know that it was real

That I am real, but without you, without knowing if you really loved me

I’m the ghost floating in the past

 

You’ll never know the burden I carry remembering you

Fighting the fleeting memories from disappearing from my mind forever

Fighting to hold on unable to let go

Every time I spread my legs I wish it was for you

Every time I close my eyes wishing when they opened I’d see you

You linger on my body but I no longer feel your touch

You linger on my mouth but it’s only fantasy reminding me of your taste

Remembering the shiver that ran down my arching spine

Remembering the wentess and warmth and swelling in between my legs

 

Your body and smell and touch that brought me so much pleasure now tortures me at night

Your face and smile and voice that I lusted for now blurrs my vision for my future

You’ll never know the burden I carry still infatuated with you

 

Infatuation entangled in rage that leaves me paralyzed

Eating my way into the present to drift back into the distance

Opening my mouth only to fill it full

Pushing down the memories of you, the betrayal by you

I close my legs and deny myself pleasure because you taught me pain will follow

No longer able to orgasm freely, too afraid to be intimate with another

Im filled with doubts and fear and confusion as to why I can’t be free of you

Im filled with anger that weighs me down until I’m numb

 

In love with a ghost

Haunted by a ghost

I am a ghost among the living

Because I loved you

Because I thought that you were real

But whose real now

Trauma shakes…

Trauma shakes

Shake me take me break me

Trauma shakes

Shake me into oblivion

Take me into numbness

Break me into fragments

 

Trauma shakes

Want me taunt me haunt me

Trauma shakes

Want me to collapse

Taunt me to self destruct

Haunt me with the ghosts of you

 

Trauma shakes

Rattle me battle me straddle me

Trauma shakes

Rattles my brain until it bleeds

Battles me until I concede

Straddles me until I can’t breathe

 

Trauma Shakes

Bate me crate me hate me

Trauma Shakes

Bate me to forget myself

Crate me into a rigid frame

Hate me until I hate me too

 

Trauma Shakes

Traumatized by thoughts of you

Shaken by thoughts of you

Traumatized by being touched by you

Shaken by being touched by you

Traumatized by the pain from you

Shaken by the pain from you

 

Trauma Shakes

Shake me until I’m traumatized too

Ever since I left the city…

Ever since i left the city you you you

Ever since i left the city me me me

Ever since i left the city we we we

Ever since i left the city

I wander the streets as I come home, scattered with scents of you, fingerprints on walls of you, reflections on windows of you

 

Ever since I left the city

I follow footsteps of you, I respond to whispers from you, I taste memories with you

 

Ever since I left the city

Sometimes I touch myself to thoughts of you, sometimes i cry about the pain from you, sometimes I hate myself for being bound to you

 

Ever since I left the city

My heart bleeds from you

My chest caves in from you

My jaw clenches from you

My mind races from you

My hand shakes from you

My body aches from you

My heels don’t touch the ground from you

 

Ever since I left the city, I never loved the city because of you

Ever since I left the city, I always miss the city because of you

Ever since I left the city, I forever wander the city because of you

Ever since I left the city
The city the city the city

The surrender didn’t come easy…

I had only men in my life. I talked like them, I dressed like them, I ate, slept and f*** like them. I didn’t own a blow dryer or eyeliner and I was more excited over a new personal record at the gym then any designer handbag.  It’s safe to say my masculine energy was dominant. My lanky body in youth paralleled my masculine traits, but when puberty hit, I wasn’t ready for the changes that a feminine, curvy body would have on my identity. Although puberty was the initiation into womanhood, it has taken well into my twenties to become aware of the imbalance between my masculine and feminine energies, and the unfolding of events awakened my repressed feminine.

 

What was it that forced my femininity to retreat? This question flooded to my consciousness when I took a moment of introspection and looked around, as if for the first time, I noticed I was completely consumed by masculine energy. I declared myself a guy’s girl and had no need for female relationships. I preached vans and football over heels and handbags, debauchery over drama, men before women. I was aggressive, I was strategic and I was strong. Qualities I still admire within myself, but they were lacking their counterpart. And I was lacking freedom. I consciously created a space and lifestyle where I had to show up consistently as only half of the human I was and am. If I could maintain my demeanor then I would have some semblance of control over my environment and peers being predictable. I felt safe, and I was willing to trade dynamism and freedom of expression for this sense of protection. Unfortunately, I felt like a fraud, I felt unfulfilled, I felt suppressed and the strength I displayed physically and externally became incongruent to the tenderness underneath. It must have been the rage and projections I was vomiting on others for not understanding me that forced me to examine the declaration that I didn’t need women in my life. Or perhaps it was the discomfort I felt around groups of women. Or maybe it was the quest for motherly nourishment I never received and never thought I could create for myself. Regardless of the origin I brilliantly discovered because of my own self prophecy I completely lacked true intimacy with females, and more significantly my own feminine energy had been suffocated. In those rare moments of pause and reflection, coming mostly out of desperation, I heard a feminine whisper and longing. I didn’t believe much of what I heard, but I listened, and I am grateful for that first and small moment of surrender.

 

The surrender didn’t come easy or soon, but the feelings of jealousy, of competition and comparison and of body shame left me in massive amounts of unnecessary suffering and disconnect from womanhood. I was constantly spinning my wheels, constantly disguising my softer side, and constantly angry with the woman in heels; something had to give. The quieted goddess within had reached her threshold for complacency and disregard, and she began to step into all of her power. Her power and intentions were disguised in the form of anxiety attacks, a compilation of repressed blocked energy that couldn’t find an outlet for expression. With the emergence of debilitating anxiety attacks, my initial reaction was to muster as much strength as I could to stop them from happening, to resist their messages and to deny my experience of feeling out of control. The anxiety attacks wore me down and brought me into isolation. I couldn’t show the men I was around that I was weak and I was too afraid of sharing myself with women because they were much more emotionally available than myself; so it was just me to sit with the intensity of repressed emotions emerging. It was in these silences that I paused to self reflect on the incongruence between my external surroundings and internal desires. I heard from within a language of love I had previously not been able to acknowledge, and in this moment the essence of my feminine came alive and into consciousness.

 

I was either going to completely self destruct from the rigidity of the box I had put myself in, or I was going to allow my belief system to expand. I was either going to adopt a larger scale of emotional expression, or I was going to be consumed by excessive amounts of energy and untold stories trapped within me. I was either going to continue to add bricks to my walls, or I was going to allow love and openness to take them down. I was either going to hide behind men, or I was going to connect with women and emotions. I was either going to dispel anxiety by physical assertion or I was going to use my voice to share my vulnerabilities. I was either going to be dominated by fear or I was going to take an intuited leap into the unknown. I was either going to deny my creativity for the sake of keeping it together, or I was going to fall apart and allow my creativity to be the art that puts the pieces back together.

 

This tension of opposing forces exemplified my internal conflict, my cognitive dissonance, my imbalance of feminine and masculine energies. If I didn’t have the time in solitude my awareness to this conflict would have remained dormant. It was through this awareness that the connection between femininity and creativity blossomed. My creativity began in solitude, in my journal and sketchbook, works of art that arose from my internal battles. The connection to my softness and openness transcended into dance and yoga, to communities where I could connect with other feminine spirits. It was here in these connections that authenticity became possible and my inner and outer reflections began to align.

 

Authenticity to me represented my capacity to hold male and female energies within and outside of myself. My all male attitude and friendships began to shift. And the women who once angered and intimidated me became inspirations and coffee dates. While I still rocked my vans, I also adopted heels and red lipstick for the moments I wanted to feel beautifully woman. I didn’t lose my masculine strength, I only added to my dynamism. I can be a tomboy and I can also go get my nails done. While this freedom was a phenomenal new experience, one that dissipated any extreme forms of anxiety, the even bigger blessing was I found like minded women who I felt completely seen and accepted by. It is these women that became my support system, my family, my tribe, my power house team of lovers and fighters. These are the women I share my deepest pains with and my most joyous bliss, where we brainstorm and encourage, analyze and create, where we expand our minds and fill our hearts full.

 

As a woman, feeling a disconnect to the feminine, jealousy or bitterness in the presence of feminine energy, know that we do not have to relinquish our handsome masculinity to feel connected to the feminine that is within. Introspection as to why these feelings established themselves is an incredible journey of self exploration. If women are those that we keep distant, it may be the opportunity to connect with our own womaness. The tuning in to our feminine intuition will lead us to those who can can be a container for our self growth, for our emotions that feel too big. The community of a powerhouse group of females show us love until we can love ourselves more fully and they will also be the feminine representation externally that we are seeking within.

Some Body…

You’re in my blood, my bones, my very human body, maybe even my soul. I store you in my hips, locked away, tucked away with the other penetrations that hurt so good, with the other times I left my body. I let you be my body, hold my body, touch my body, insert yourself within my body, create a little body within my body. But I was no body until you came and moved my body stimulated my body unshackled my body. It wasn’t until you, did I know the things my body could do. Could feel. Could be. I could have had your child, incubated her, then birthed her. But you were just a body, a some body, and she needed more. She didn’t even get to become a body. But I still wanted your body, to make a home in that masculine body, but there was no one home. It was empty. It was a shell. And it was cold. How had my body allowed that body to enter her, to suck the life from hers to yours. How had I been so wrong? Where was my home? Was I a shell as well?

Two shells numbed, but two shells lusting for the horizontal body dance. The language only bodies speak. But your body spoke it better, it was more versed in such a dialect. And mine melted into stimulation, to raw and primal spaces, alas an escape from the floating head. I could feel a pulse, a vibration, an awakening. And my body wanted more. But more could not fill the empty shell, and less could not empty the head so full. And you knew the paradox I was being asked to face to earn that pleasure from your body to my body. You took my virginity and ran with my Mary. You opened my hips and invited the pain to come unhinged. Sacrificing my pain for the lust of me to you. A promised place of protection in your body was only a promise of betrayal. The more your body lingered on mine the more I had no body to be. I had no place to touch down, I had no feelings to express my thoughts from. I only had the moments of penetration to be some body.

A wandering soul and an anxious body…

feartravelblogpic

As I was dropped off at the airport, I couldn’t decipher if the buzzing in my body was a forewarning for a panic attack, or thrill for what my eyes would see, my lips would taste, and my nose would smell, when landing in a foreign country. But the thoughts that seemed like magnets to my mind were laced in threats of potential danger and reasons why I shouldn’t go. I bought a plane ticket one week before departure, acting as if spontaneity was second nature. I set out on this venture alone, maybe with something to prove to myself, maybe a rebellious fuck you to my anxiety, or maybe my soul wanting to revel in the freedom of my recent job resignation. I had no concept of where I would call home and no understanding of the various transportation systems, but I had a direct flight set to depart in a few hours. Some would find this an exhilarating adventure of discovery, whereas I was ruminating over the feelings that my safety would be sacrificed. The compulsive WHAT IFS magnified in their compulsory questioning. My heart yearned to travel as much as my mind pleaded for a retreat into familiar comfort zones. How curious it is to experience within myself, a free spirit stuck in human rigidity and anxiousness.

As the paradoxical inner pulls continued to battle for the domination of my attention, I, by way of autopilot maneuvering, handed my passport over to be stamped at customs, checked my bags, and walked into the terminal. Forward movement was dwarfed by mounting anxiety, and the judgements I was forming of the threatening panic I was being consumed by over recreational travel. Reaching my threshold for discomfort, I wanted to turn back to the safety of my car, my apartment, my routine, and the arms of my significant other. Forcing a split between my overactive emotions and my physical movement, I kept walking, right onto the plane, right into my seat, and buckled up, despite my inability to internally regulate. I pleaded with the customer service agent to give me an aisle seat, as claustrophobia only increases panic. She sent me to the very back of the plane, assigned me to a window seat with no middle passenger as a neighbor. I thought with this seating arrangement and extra space, the sleeping ailment that I took, and the departure being as late or as early as 1:45am, I was taking measures to combat my anxiety. Unfortunately, once my anxiety evolves to panic, I cannot deny it; I can only hope to stifle it long enough until it passes, requiring me to be pulled from the present moment and depleting my energy reserves. And so I sat there, with silent screams and eyes jumping from their sockets, fighting to appear stoically calm. In this posture I had one final thought, that this was my last opportunity to bail. Just as the thought illuminated into my awareness, the plane peeled from the terminal, and I was committed to my final destination.

I found rest and freedom within my breath within the first hour of flight by grace, or maybe by way of mental exhaustion after containing prolonged panicking, or perhaps my sleeping pill finally out lasted my adrenaline. I drifted into a medically induced power nap for the first leg of the flight. As I awoke to turbulence, the subsided fear reemerged with a vengeance when I remembered arrival came with no guarantees of safety, transportation, housing, or familiar faces. I sat bracing myself for landing and another round of labored breathing and dooming thoughts, masked by outer collectiveness.

As the plane touched down I had to collect my bags and navigate my way to shelter. Shelter felt like the appropriate questing for, as I walked out of the airport and into chaos, feeling exposed and vulnerable, I immediately shifted into survival mode. My instincts heightened, as did my hypervigilance. I was bombarded by the native language, which ignorantly sounded like gibberish as I was held hostage to sales pitches for numerous transportation and accommodation services. I quickly ruled out the bus because I had too many bags and looked the part of a tourist, as well as an easy target. Only then to rule out renting a car as GPS wasn’t functional on my phone, nor was a thousand dollar deposit within my backpackers budget possible. As I used the process of elimination to determine my movement from point A to the unknown point B, a shuttle appeared with a gentle English speaking man, asking if I needed assistance. He not only contacted, booked, and delivered me to a hostel, he took me to a local spot for lunch.

The fearful thoughts continued to recycle after each small victory. As I had survived my plane ride and shuttle, and landed on the doorstep of my hostel, I now had new things to contemplate over with varying degrees of anxiety. My host welcomed me, escorted me to my clean enough room, and inquired about my itinerary for my trip, in which I had no answer to. But the city I was currently in was dark, the sidewalks broken, no street signs or pedestrian crossings, the noise of crowded buses and speeding taxis and herds of people, told me I didn’t want to remain in this location long. I was petrified to go outside and in my fear of exiting the hostel, I felt trapped by the four walls of my dorm room as I sat atop my bunk bed shaking. I needed to get to the coast, to the pictures I had seen on social media and google images, to regain the freedom in my chest and for affirmation of this impromptu travel. Calling back home for support, I heard the voice of my mother, and quickly the tears fell. I was not sure if I made the right decision in impulsively purchasing a plane ticket to an unknown country. My trip thus far had been a resurrection of my relationship with my anxiety and management of it. The opposite of the adrenal fatigue recovery vacation I had envisioned.

I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, with no electricity or hot water, barely able to see my reflection behind my dirt smeared face and fleeting sunlight, tears streamed from my eyes. I felt like a failure, but with the release of tears, a sense of acceptance washed over me and made way to my surrendering. From within I heard the soothing words…You are not alone…I had to surrender to my anxiety, to see it as a messenger, not as a debilitating phenomenon, to transition out of survival mode. I had to free myself from the opinions I had of myself because of it. I had to continue moving, despite the paralyzing experience my anxiety can generate. And so I called my shuttle driver from the airport, who happily came to escort me to the coast, and to my delight, brought with him a fellow solo traveler from the states. I chatted with this American man for the entirety of our shared ride, in nervous runon sentences and renewed optimism. I expressed to him I had been struggling with fear. He responded by telling me, “The fear is natural and healthy, it is part of it, but don’t entertain the thoughts that follow”. Maybe it was his Jamaican accent, or the reggae that was playing, or the comfort of the familiar face of my shuttle driver, but I felt a knot within my gut beginning to untangle.

And there she was, the tranquil yet raging ocean waves of Costa Rica. I was surrounded by sandy beaches, palm trees, fresh coconut stands, smiling people from all over the world, and beauty that pictures couldn’t even begin to capture. I felt validated in my intuitive decision to travel here alone, even if prior to this moment the connection to my intuition had been lying dormant beneath my anxiety. I needed to be with my fear, my anxiety, my panic, and my aloneness, so that I could wholeheartedly celebrate my freedom.

I’ve felt moments of pure bliss, followed by crashing descents into panic, but with each emotional experience, they washed away with the tides, to resurface again in different and unique waves. I have felt the threshold of freedom when galloping a caballo across the beach as the waves splashed at me, and I have felt the fear of destruction when learning to surf. I have spent much time alone, writing and reflecting as much on my inner journey as my outer, but I have also felt the immediate connection when meeting some of the most beautiful humans whose souls speak the same language as mine. As I sit here with excitement to go home to my familiar and with a refreshed perspective of the blessings and luxurious I live with, I am gripped with sadness at what I leave behind and now only hold as memories.

I will always have my anxiety, but I will also always have the experience of what is on the other side that presents before the panic, as well as a firm belief in the plasticity of my thresholds. I will always crave wandering as strongly as I require safety. Traveling alone, will never be as lonely as it seems for it will be a beautifully orchestrated vacillation between freedom and fear, connection and introspection. Without fear there is no gratitude for freedom. Without freedom there is no appreciation for fear. A wise surfer in Costa Rica told me, “Fear will aid you, but panic will kill you”. As I often limit myself because of my perplexing fear and desire for freedom simultaneously, I take comfort in knowing there is vitality and aliveness in traveling with anxiety, and going at it alone. I can hold that paradox. When the calling for travel confronts me again, I may experience hesitation at the discomfort of meeting my thresholds yet again, but I will not deny my inner nomad her wandering because of her anxious counterpart.

 

The Jack of all trades syndrome…

jackoftrades

     I had just finished a grueling Monday morning workout, where the only gruel was getting out of bed and convincing myself that this workout thing was necessary, even though I was uncomfortable and bloated and lethargic. I ran the water, praying for a miraculous transformation from the cleansing shower, or at the very least a jolt into awakened motivation. Maybe it landed somewhere in between, but at least I felt I washed the grunge off from the weekend affairs, the riveting fun outrageous affairs of the weekend, the affairs that leave me empty but full, uncomfortable in my own skin, the morning after drinks and food and late nights, a tempting lifestyle, but laced with a lingering pursuit of beating the feelings its masking. As I drive to the gym, racing to beat the traffic, my mind wanders into that creative space full of images of bodies moving in geometric sequences, my body dancing through the unique combination of exercises, the creation of new movements to challenge my body, new variations, and just as I’m about to lose myself in the after feel of what this amazing workout will bring, reality slaps me in the face. I hit a block. That workout might be too tough. You might not want to work that hard. You should save your energy. Store it. What if it hurts? I want it to hurt. I want my body to feel that shit. I want my body to suffer, for being so out of control, for not fitting into a particular designated appropriate clothing size. I want to punish you body for never feeling good. I hate you for not letting me get away from you or out of you. But then I feel a piece of me that doesn’t want you to hurt. For you to feel good. To move in ways that nourish and don’t torture. The gym has become my battleground. The love hate hate love relationship is overwhelming. Sometimes I can’t bring myself to go there and other times I couldn’t crave anything more. The relationship is exhausting. Waking up each morning not knowing how I am going to feel about you gym. How much energy will be needed just to get out the door. How much motivation will I have to muster? Or will I rise up like a spring chicken eager to run and frolic and sweat and flap. The dilemma seems to always remain, I want to get out of my body, this body, and so I workout to promote and encourage that change, but I want to love a body, I want to get out of my head and feel fully sensated by the adrenaline rush and burn and twitch facilitated through lifting heavy weights or moving gracefully in dance. My hands remained tied. I feel bloated with tension. I feel abandoned by direction, intuition. I feel pulled around on a string like a puppet, monkey see monkey do bullshit, to go go go then stop stop stop, to start to stop, to be on then off, to go everyday, to go not at all. If you are passionate about anything there is no such thing as balance. Yes I feel you wanting me to say I need balance. I don’t believe that to be true. I need to know what it is that I really want. I can rely on moments of inspiration backed by discipline to get me through something I am truly passionate about, but what if I don’t know my truest most organic passion? What if I’m in a desperate search, one I feel that has no end- resolution- or answer? I am left with emptiness, a craving I can’t satisfy, and this repetitive lack of satiation leaves me bracing and expecting instead of committing, jumping all in, not holding back. I am half assing and half committing because I don’t truly love it, is that it? The jack of all trades syndrome. So good truly good at so many things, but never great. When effort needs to exceed talent, I bail. When discipline is running away without inspiration, I deflate. When I’m not instantly gratified for my beginnings and small triumphs, I avoid. When it’s hard and I run the risk of looking like a complete fool I don’t give it my all and end up in a bucket of frustration that I can’t kick over.  When my progression is slow, hardly noticeable, like the grass growing, or water drying, I quit. I wave the white flag. I rebel. And so the pendulum shifts to the next. But in this ferocious shit storm of swinging pendulums I feel sadness, deep grieving, intertwined with freedom and a finger up, a rebellious flair, yet one that crashes and burns. The freedom I know is limited for I know I will always put the collar back on and lead myself back into the kennel. A slave to the leash, a leash held by whom. A leash labeled should.

Scarcity to Sufficiency

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     I’ve been living from a place of scarcity since I can remember; so maybe always. Scarcity, shortage, lacking, insufficient, sparse, impoverished, without. Looking at myself and my life from the outside in, this impoverished state wouldn’t be so obvious. But if you were looking from the inside out it would be a completely different picture. Living from this place has left me with circular thoughts of not being enough…enough what? That sentence could be finished with just about anything, and it is this very statement that fulfills that self imposed prophecy. We are what we think. Our bodies hear what our minds say. Our inner world manifest as our outer world. So scarcity to me has looked like: I don’t have enough time. Therefore I’m either running around like a chicken with its head cut off, cramming all nighters for deadlines, or paralyzed in bed out of exhaustion. I didn’t get enough sleep. This looks like missing the gym in the early morning or not making it to a class in the evening, and being a delusional zombie at work on auto pilot. I’m not fit enough. This one digs the knife in and twists it because it perpetuates unhealthy eating habits and neglecting my water and then feeling crappy and thinking working out is producing zero results and I should just skip workouts. I don’t have enough money. The belief here keeps my life small when the one thing I crave is traveling, all those coffees could easily add up to a plane ticket. I’m not educated enough. This prevents me from climbing a career ladder. End quote. The commonality behind all these beliefs is scarcity, is not having something. And believing in my scarcity really prevents me from being self sufficient. That there is enough and that I am enough. The mentality of scarcity is a slippery slope, that with enough momentum, will completely paralyze you. But that’s what it is, a mentality. For me I was unaware that this was my default state of mind and because it was my default I wasn’t mindful of it. Without consciousness to this state of mind I was powerless to it. Now with this resonance I have the capacity to shift that state of mind from not enough to enough, from scarcity to sufficiency. 

I AM moody…

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     I am, a provocative, yet simplistic statement. Within two words, it captures your past, present and future, your darkest demons, most secretive fantasies, and joyous bliss. I am is a declaration of how you hold the essence of what makes you, well you. It is a portrayal of the filter you use when you look at yourself, think about yourself, define yourself, and then share yourself with others. I’ve notice lately that I freely engage in conversations with people where I share my passions, my aspirations, my shortcomings, and my doubts, yet rarely do I make a bold statement starting with I am, aside from the times I finish that sentence with a mood. I struggle with moods, with staying in a consistent temperament, at least internally. Maybe that’s often why I’m told that I’m stoic, or have a gentle strength, or have such a calming presence, and simultaneous to those word, my insides crawl creep prowl with resentment. Inside I make many bold statements: I am angry, I am depressed, I am stoked, I am anxious. Often my declarations of moods are incongruent to my stoicism, but often the moods are so impressionable that I AM that mood. I don’t feel it, I AM it. I fully embody it, attach to it, fear it, crave it, deny it, hate it, love it, and don’t trust in its permanence. And so the moodiness pursues. And so the paradox ensues. Why can’t I be one of my passions? What do I feel passionate about? I love to do yoga, I love to dance, I love to write, I love to workout. BUT I have never been able to say: I AM a yogi, I AM a dancer, I AM an author, I AM a bodybuilder. I live in the verbs, but don’t own the nouns. I feel like a fraud in the nouns. If I do those things I AM those things, and I can be all of those things simultaneously, fluidly, dynamically, and more significantly I can hold and integrate all those parts of myself, while still being capable of completely being only one thing when I am absorb in it in the moment. So why can’t I claim these parts of me as me, instead of only things that I do? I’m feeling it plays into my relationship with my moodiness. When I am happy I want to be that way forever, but don’t trust it to stay with me and last. When I am sad, I resist feeling it, yet don’t trust that it too shall pass. Maybe claiming ownership over my passions scares the hell out of me for its lack of permanence. Maybe if I say I am a yogi I now have a certain pressure to always be that, to always act and do as a yogi does. Maybe if I say I’m a dancer then that means I need to know how to twerk and tap and not have stage fright. Maybe if I say I am an author I won’t give myself the space to draw. And if I say I am a bodybuilder I feel the pressure of having to uphold a certain image and feel guilty if I indulge in anything outside a watered down protein shake. Maybe in this moment I am okay with my passions being verbs as I create myself and integrate all parts of myself, and maybe instead of having to anNOUNt myself, I can instead learn to turn my moods into verbs and not claim I AM MOODY.

When I feel insecure I can be a complete bitch…

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     When I feel insecure I can be a complete bitch. As if I want those around me to either feel that themselves, or feel how I’m feeling and make me feel better, unconsciously. Now that I can tap into those times when I feel insecure I’m no longer ignorant to how completely impolite I can be. Those times I feel insecure may spawn from doing something outside of my comfort zone. It may come from starting something new and having expectations that aren’t compatible. It may come from comparing my day 1 to someone’s day 300. It may be a product of self sabotage. Regardless, insecurity shifts my energy and I vibrate lower. I’m emotionally exhausted from staying in a negative headspace and feel disconnected from myself and those around me. Tracing the chain of events that occur that lead me down this negative spiral, I notice it starts and ends with fear. Once fear has taken over the perspective I filter life’s happenings from changes completely; the inner dialogue transforms from curiosity and ambition to self consciousness and frustration. A deadly combo when what you are seeking is fluidity and openness. The self talk is brutal and the distortion of others perception of me makes me shrink even further into myself. Once within this inner cave I truly want to abandon outside stimulation and become completely introverted. While absorbed by my own introversion I assess the evidence that supports staying locked in this negative space and believing the reality this filter portrays.. It is in this negative space that my self love self confidence and grounding evaporate. The negativity becomes a tangible weight that robs me of motivation, paralyzing me from the inside out. Without motivation I slowly slip away from the daily rituals that feed my soul and it is a slippery slope from here. Without daily rituals I don’t have the foundation of daily habits and movement to create the momentum to reach the bigger goals. And without momentum, the bigger goals seem too far away, too impossible. And so I am resigned and bitchy. The work is to notice when insecurity is present, rather than unconsciously projecting that onto others. Pushing those away who feed your soul because your too afraid to be seen in rawness. Rawness doesn’t equal insecure or imperfect, but instead implies you can be vulnerable, it can feel scary, but you can own it.

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