A few years ago my husband and I went to Carowinds (an amusement park) after a long night of drinking. (Which sucked, by the way. Hangovers and big rides do not mix.) There was one roller coaster that had a cyborg-y theme. They strapped you in, laying down, your head leading the way up the giant hill. “Resistance is fu-tile. You will assimilate.” announced a computerized voice. I wasn’t so sure I’d assimilate, unless that was also code for be green and barf, but now I can’t get that voice out of my head.
Resistance y’all. It really is fu-tile. I have been resisting myself my whole life. Fighting against who I truly am to be some version of me that is made up of years of trying to fit in and other random bits and pieces pulled from everywhere. Everywhere. All the places and people of my life trying to claim a bit of me, and me just willing to pass them out like candy.
What the hell.
So I woke up the other morning and I was having my morning think- where I just snuggle into the covers and think. I pray some, try to meditate. (Although I really cannot make the breath square but up to about 4 times without completely losing track. “3…..4…..when was that dentist appointment again? Gah, I’m fat. I need to go for a run. Why did I eat that cake last night? I think I want a purple rag rug for the living room. Oh, shit. I forgot to keep meditating!” ) But there was room for this big thought: I have been resisting my life. Struggling against it. Standing firm right smack dab in the middle of my own way.
And I might just need to MOVE.
You know how, when you know something, but you don’t really know it, but then you do know it, and then you feel sort of dumb? Like, ohhhhhhh, yeah, yes! That’s it! I kind of laughed a little out loud at myself in the dark at 5 in the morning. Well, DUH. MOVE.
There are things that are consistent struggles in my life: My weight. Being afraid to be me, to speak and live my truth- even if it isn’t the most popular thing to do. Feeling like I am enough, that I have enough- like I’m doing it right. Being vulnerable when I am so afraid to open my heart. Fear of big success, of any success.
Keeping myself at a nice save average when I could really shine.
Immediately my brain resists: You’re trying to be something you’re not.
But what if that isn’t true? What if I’m trying to be something I deep down am and my play-it-safe part keeps getting in my way? What if all this time I’ve been refusing to see what is really true about me?
I feel like I’ve been in a slingshot. I’m the rock. All my life has been pulling me back. Pulling and pulling. And I’ve been helping by doing all this resisting. By living on wishes (“I wish I were thinner. I wish I could be a writer. I wish I could be a yoga teacher.” Etc.) BUT DOING NOTHING TO MAKE THEM COME TRUE.
What. The. HELL?????
I got pulled far back enough that I can see the slingshot. I can see the whole thing. And it makes a Y.
It makes a Y. A why.
So here I am, rocky little me. Stretched as far back as I can go, afraid to fly. Looking at what drives me and seeing the Y clearly for the first time. Yes, I am afraid. What if I lose weight and people notice me? What if I wrote and wrote and made something happen and people think I’m trying too hard. What if I got to be a yoga teacher and I was really good at it? What if I was good, really good, at stuff? My rocky little self is afraid of heights, afraid to fly.
But I’m already here, in the air. Sobriety slung the shot without me really realizing I’d been flung. And I’ve been scrambling, grasping for a handholds. But all this time I haven’t needed to hold on, I’ve needed to let go.
Resistance is futile.