A couple of weeks ago I had the privilege of attending a day-long Authentic Writing workshop in Woodstock, NY with Marta Szabo and Fred Poole. I actually won a free spot and was so thrilled, because I have felt called to write with them for quite some time.
Authentic Writing, as they hold space for it, is about writing whatever flows from you from your personal experience after being given a very broad prompt. In this workshop we were given one prompt in the morning and the second one in the afternoon.
Here is what came through for me (stream of consciousness -- with no editing) that morning with the prompt, "Running Away."
[Note: Since I wrote this I attended a Holotropic Breathwork workshop and have increased the level of supplements I am taking -- and have had a noticeable improvement in my energy levels, so I'm not in the same space I was when I wrote this. Fingers crossed for continued improvement!!]
Running Away
I'm not sure where to start and maybe it is my health. It feels like running away from everything really. Nothing required of me. Nothing left really. Yet everything is here for me now. What is there to run away from now? I've run from everything right back to myself. And now what? Days on the couch -- unsure of everything and yet seeing it all fall into place. Didn't I already run away? Isn' that what I did in 2005 when I left my husband for a younger man? Or was that running toward???
What am I running away from now? What is there to get away from? Maybe this illness is here so that I STOP running. So that I just sit still with myself. I mean, there is not running now. Not in any sense of the word. No jogging, no skipping -- sometimes even no showering.
There. Is. No. Where. To. Run. Here I am. Why isn't that enough?
Is healing running away? Or is healing my passport into the life I wanted when I ran away in 2007?
I don't want to run any more. I just want to stay. Grounded. Rested. Walking gently and confidently into the future.
Why does this feel like a very long rest stop?
Not the end of a journey -- though I fear that almost daily. Fear that there is no more for me. Just at the point when it all awaits me, my journey ends. So says my fear.
What would I even run from? A loving partner, work I love, fabulous children -- the terror of it all being taken away. The seeming knowing in my bones that it could and probably will be ripped from me at any moment.
Running from the jobs I hated. Running from the ways I gave to much. Running from the fear that history will repeat itself.
I've run myself into the inability to run.
And this all feels like some awkward dance around something much deeper and more personal. Blah blah blah theoretical nonsense. Where's the meat of this?
Or is this all a blessing? A gift. "A bunch of crap" says a part of me. I'm really not sure. Is this a place of holding back, of sabotage? Or is this all surfacing because I now refuse to run away.
Who the hell knows? Maybe I'm trying to give a larger meaning to something that is just the logical outcome of shitty circumstances.
Divorce. Bankruptcy. Foreclosure. Moving. Mother has cancer. Getting violently attacked and threatened at work on almost a daily basis. Witnessing your brother-in-law drwn and the wretched aftermath on your sister and her children. (And dare I say it? On the vacation where I was supposed to be recovering from the rest of this crap.) Et cetera...
Maybe where I'm at is not some big spiritual journey. Maybe by trying to give it meaning I'm just running away from the reality that this illness is just the direct result of bearing too much for too long. Of course, it could also be that I'm just too weak to deal and turn it all into some great opportunity -- like those folks you see who can do that.
Maybe this is just the price I pay for not listening to myself for too long.
I'm tired. Even writing this exhausts me. And yet I dream of this all being a turning point. I hold on to hope that this is a giant purge of all the rules and stories and responsibilities that I never should have accepted.
And wouldn't you be exhausted if on a regular basis, for 10 months, you went to work and once there were grabbed by the hair and shook? Or shoved around? Or cornered alone and defenseless by someone known to have bitten chunks out of people's faces? And believing you had no choice but to return each day or have no way to feed your children.
Or perhaps you are one of those strong types who can handle everything and never miss a beat. One of those heroes who works with vulnerable folks who need support, but happen to be violent -- for decades -- and never miss a day.
If so, I salute you. It didn't work for me. And I tried. I prayed. Invoked angels. Took my Happy Camper pills. Cried. Shook. And got up and did it again. Ignored blaring internal billboards that screamed at me to get out NOW! I went back in every day, even when I wanted to go back to bed.
I shouted. Asked for help. Got empty reassurances that eventually came to pass -- after I was long gone from that job.
This is when I should have run away. But it didn't happen that way. Instead of running, I collapsed in a heap. This heap is where I am now. Not much good to anyone but myself. Though that is not true exactly.
It's just that I'm not going to do anything I don't want to do. And thanks to this illness, I can't.
And thanks to this illness I can't do a lot of what I'd love to do. And yet life goes on.
I'm tired. I can't run. And I guess I am right where I want to be anyway. If only I would stop trying to win the race.
I'm not running anywhere. Is there such a thing as "napping away"? I'll take that please. I'll take that.
That's all I've got.
I'm asleep in the land of my dreams. Surrounded by everything I love and unable to do what I think I should be doing.
Still running away -- though it's all here for me. And I can't run anywhere anyway...
Saturday, May 26, 2012 at 7:40PM 
