I woke up with a start in the middle of the night, panic surging to my heart because I somehow remembered in my sleep that I didn’t blog yesterday.

We went to bed after midnight so even if I had blogged before bed it wouldn’t have been the 15th anymore.  We don’t often stay up that late but sometimes it’s a much needed release to just ‘break’ the rules.  I know the prices I’ll pay (and I did pay them today) but somehow, it felt worth it to just stay up late, curled on the couch, watching (really bad) T.V.

I put a lot of pressure on myself to fulfill goals I set.  I think it has to do with the amorphous nature of my days without a paying job, the consequences that I feel so quickly because of my M.S. and also, the fact that I was easily dissuaded and distracted when I was younger.  I would make bold declarations and never see them through.  I don’t want that to be my legacy.  So when I decide to do something, I want to stick with it.  Missing day #15 of my year-long blogging challenge was a huge, huge disappointment.

And then I remembered that that only person really reading this blog,  or keeping track of when I’m writing, is me.  And just like the Peloton, missing a day doesn’t erase everything.  It just means getting back on the proverbial horse the next day.  I tried quitting drinking So. Many. Times.  Until one time it just stuck.

I believe in the idea of doing something for 66 days to create a habit.  It’s worked for me every time I’ve tried it.  So I missed yesterday … while letting loose and enjoying being a little irresponsible after a wicked year, a strange holiday season, and one of the worst weekends of my life.

What matters is I came back today.  And I’ll come back tomorrow.  And I’ll just keep writing and keep being disciplined and just like biking and Sculpt classes and yoga and drinking and quitting smoking … at some point, it will just stick and be part of who I am, and the rhythm of my day.

So here’s to Day 16.  Or Day 1.  Whichever.  Here’s to just being here.

Xox, g

Sometimes my mind is overflowing with questions, contemplations, things I want to dissect and discuss.  Other times, it’s just … blank.

Writing every day is an exercise many writing ‘gurus’ recommend.  Sitting down and putting pen to paper (fingertips to keys) builds habits, builds routine.  Builds familiarity with pushing through when nothing is there.

It doesn’t make it easier, no matter how much I tell myself it’s beneficial.

Two days ago during my therapy session (done via computer, obv) I basically word vomited for an hour about the frustrations of family; the difficulties that I cannot seem to overcome or transcend when dealing with my in-laws.  My therapist suggested that the theme, or rather, my theme, something she hears over and over again, is the struggle to please people, to be accepted by people who just … don’t.  And that this narrative — of not belonging, of always feeling less than, or somehow wrong — seems to underline a lot of the large story arcs of my life.

That’s a mind f*ck if ever I’ve encountered one.

So … do I create this martyrdom that I seem to habitually inhabit?  Do I see things, hear things, infer things that aren’t actually there?  Is the problem intrinsically mine?

I don’t know.

I know that two people told me in very rapid succession (and two people who do not know each other … they just both know me) that I need to love myself enough and accept myself enough that the rejection of others doesn’t weigh so heavily on my shoulders.

And here is where I struggle.  I thought … up until this very week, actually … that I *did* love myself.  That I *did* think I was pretty cool.  So to hear that in fact, I might not (or I might not enough) is just ….   Well, it’s a huge roadblock, it’s the biggest distraction, it is the shining light that is currently blinding me.

How do I love myself enough to transcend the continuous rejection that I experience from others?  I don’t f*cking know.

Xo, g