Helping Myself


After one post, it’s become clear to me that things might get uncomfortable.  There are topics, staples of transition, which should be discussed.  They aren’t subjects that I love, but if I’m going to be honest and get the Transition Therapy that I need, I must indulge them.  I came to this conclusion when I was overcome with my every-other-day swath of rage.  So here goes nothing…

Part of me feels that I should start by saying: if we were to randomly meet in, say, the grocery store you would see that I am an even keeled, positive outlook gal with a nice smile and good teeth.  I’d probably be using my top-notch conversation skills to chat Guy’s ear off.   Possibly, this is why bone burning, acid refluxing rage flips me inside out and makes me want to scream four letter word litanies at the top of my lungs. 

The whole experience is just so unnatural.

The origin of these crimson washes was indefinable until one evening when I sat down to consider catalysts to the rage.  What is the common denominator between having to repeat myself and struggling to learn something new?  Then I came up with it.  At least for me.  It’s about two things: blaming myself and feeling like I didn’t start from a sound foundation.  If I have to repeat myself (I know, totally trivial) I assume that it is because I wasn’t clear from the start.  While reason tells me that the other person might not have heard me, I more readily blame my garbled delivery.  And if I am scrambling to figure out something new and frustration arises, it is because I fiercely believe that it is a task that I should already know.  Expertly. Without mistake.  (Yes, I do recognize the lunacy in that as well, but these are the tricks that I play on myself.)

I am learning to cope with my version of Holly Golightly’s “Mean Reds.”  When the Reds start to build, I begin to seriously consider an hour of yoga.  I cannot tell you the amount of additional anger this need to do yoga hands me.   Nothing bruises my ego more than having to rely on an external factor to calm me.  When the thought of seeking help couples with the knowledge that this yoga instructor will contort her body to insane angles while I work to touch my hands to the ground during a Straight Leg Standing Forward Bend I become defiant.  My mind reels, my teeth clench, and it takes every ounce of gumption that I can muster to unroll my yoga mat.  It is such a minor movement, but at the same time it is the one action that indicates I succumbed to the idea that I need some outside assistance.  Fifteen minutes into stretching and breathing, it is shocking to realize yoga’s application actually soothes me.  My mind and nervous system are calmer.  To pile insult atop ego’s injury, by the end of the hour I notice my improved mood.

I feel good.  Enough so, that I don’t even berate myself for the minutes that existed, more than an hour ago, when I fought to keep myself from helping myself.  What matters is that I helped myself.





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