Sooner or Later, It All Comes Out

Something about a good show shakes something loose in me. We had an extraordinary night at The Tell on Wednesday, and sure as shit, all day Thursday, I felt something casting off its moorings.

I made it through the workday, cognizant of this thing emerging, ready to fly. Called my cranio-sacral babe (Carolyn over at Relaxation Plus), but wasn't able to get in to see her that night.

SHIT. I was going to have to birth this thing by myself.

For those of you who don't know me well, I'm an angry motherfucker. Like WICKED angry. (Check out what Louise Hay has to say about belly fat; it will all come together.) The reasons for the anger don't matter right now, and may never bear any weight again. Besides -- they're nothing but stories I created around factual events; the meaning I've added.

I damn near lost it in the grocery store. Right. There. In. The. Squash.

Nope. Not gonna happen.

I went into full avoidance mode, calling friends, throwing myself into work, traipsing over to my girlfriend's place, calling more friends, working social media like a rented show pony ... until I just couldn't any longer.

I knew it was the anger wanting, begging, demanding to be released. I took a deep breath and asked, "how do I do this?", and heard, "focus on it."

Are you FUCKING SERIOUS? Do you not know the entire reason I'm funny? Why do you think I commit so fully to being positive in social media? It’s so nobody has to look at it. ‘Focus on the anger?’ PASS: that shit is dangerous.

"Focus on it."

Oh, voice in my head ... FINE.

So I made myself a bath with sea salts, baking soda, and a blend of essential oils I like to call the Smart & Spicy Jesus .... and settled in to tentatively welcome whatever was going to come forth.

It started with recognition of full-body muscle tension, so I worked to relax each muscle in my physical being, one by one.

I swirled around, avoiding my heart and stomach (the pain centers, as I think of them in this case), until I couldn't ignore them any longer.

My focus on the reason for my anger became intense, burning. I could see this person, smell their wretched breath, see the gaps in their teeth, hate the very thought of them .... and then I burst.

Like a soap bubble caught just right by the wind … .

What I thought surely was going to be some sort of verbal version of the Exorcist— 30 years of fuck you—presented itself in hot, exhausted, apologetic tears.

Yes. You read that correctly. Apologetic.

I suddenly found myself steeping in full-body sorrow, of all unexpected things. Regret for the assumptions I make, the roll I play in perpetuating all of this reciprocal bewilderment of feeling betrayed but not being able to give name to it, and the stories I created around the entire ordeal.

My soul called my anger forth … to ask for forgiveness.

I know I can’t possibly be the first person to make this connection.

But you can be damn straight I’ll add my voice to the sound of those preaching about the other side, amen.