50 hours down

Tonight was the last night of my Anusara teacher's training with Justicia Friese DeClue, who, if I haven't already said this, is brilliant, not just because she's a gifted yogi, not because her head holds a thousand tons of information—anatomy, philosophy, possibly every page of the Anusara teaching syllabus...but also because she knows how to disseminate her knowledge and provide the safe space for her students to feel deserving, welcome and full of potential to soar. Plus, although she's steadfast in her belief in Shiva-Shakti Tantra, she's not at all gooey, and that suits me.

I am gushing, it's true. Maybe I am gooey.

enduring the assault

I don't know how it happens. Or maybe I do. My childhood. My early training in dysfunctional stress management. The subsequent addictive behaviors and their inevitable withdrawal symptoms. The melt-downs upon which this blog is named after.

My whole life has been punctuated and punctured with spectacular displays of grueling self-hatred that sometimes I share with you, like now, since I've been blind-sided again, and feel desperate for the reassurance that I am not alone, desperate to make something productive of my pain.

Hope has given way to hopelessness. Happy delusion has disintegrated into what? Panic. A yearning to check out, to hide under the covers for the rest of winter until I feel safe to show my face again.

toast

My bedroom reeks of pot but I swear I haven't been smoking, even if you don't believe me. Seriously, you don't want to see me high. It isn't pretty. Did you know all the Main Line moms toke up after they put the kids to bed? It was the cover story in Philadelphia Magazine. I saw it in Whole Foods the other month. But I've always been a black sheep, despite my adolescent yearnings to fit in, so I do not partake. Is it even pot anymore? I think it would kill me.