Oct 7

Oct 7 My Nakedness.

I have been getting undressed.

All the cloaks and robes I used to disguise my soft insides have begun falling off quicker than I can keep myself covered.

The moment one layer falls, the next is already molting.

The first cloak to be removed was my alcohol consumption. In shamanism, alcohol is a ‘light feminine’ energy.

When I chose to sacrifice her to the altar of my heart, so began my dreamlike weird and wild descent into the rich, lush, fertile, dank world of the deep, dark feminine.

The shifts were, at first, beyond my conscious understanding. Then I began to meet parts of myself under each cloak.

First, my ‘good little girl’ who wanted everyone to like her.

Then, my ‘inner patriarchy’ who wanted me to sit down and shut up.

Then, my ‘damsel’ who wanted her man to save her.

Then, my ‘victim’ who wanted to blame everyone else.

Then, my ‘persecutor’ who wanted me beat into a pretty little package.

Then, my ‘villain’ who wanted to provoke your edges.

And on, and on, and on down the slippery, wet slope of the melting walls.

The dismantling has been fast and furious.

At each step, life herself has shown up as the perfect teacher as I’ve navigated the ‘down’.

It works like this:

Once I lay down my control in any area (which has always been my favorite numbing mechanism), I get confronted by the part of me it was trying to avoid.

And instead of going to my next favorite numbing mechanism, I go there.

I lean right into the uncomfortable feeling.

I turn off the story in my head about it. Feel where I feel it in my body.

And meet it.

Breathe space into it.

I say: You are allowed. I’m not forcing you down this time. Come up. Have a seat at the table.

And I sit with it.

This is what I mean when I use the term ‘unfuckwithable.’

Unfuckwithable is the ability to be with the only thing that really scares us:

Our own feelings.

So this is how it has gone as I’ve disrobed. The layers have come off like so:

First alcohol. Then codependence. Then Prozac.

And now, food. And my body.

This is one of my oldest, deepest things.

And of course, this is so layered.

I don’t just meet my fear of food once and be done. I need to meet it over and over and over again, because this shit goes back far and runs deep.

So, as you know from my last blog post, I decided to stop ‘food restricting’. Meaning, I’ve given myself permission to honor my hunger completely and give my body back the power that my mind had taken from her.

I am officially allowed to eat what I want, when I want, and how much of it I want.

You can see how confronting this may be, yes?

And also, how difficult? So many of our ‘beliefs’ about food are subsconsciously hard wired, so we can’t even see the role they play in our choices.

For example, I thought I loved seafood. While I do enjoy it, what I really loved about seafood is that I could eat it and not feel guilty after because it met most of my internalized ‘food rules’.

Another example: The idea of having a plain bagel and cream cheese is so foreign, so blasphemous, it doesn’t even occur to me as an option when I look at a menu.

Not because I don’t have a taste for it, but it doesn’t even make it through the initial filter of: is this an appropriate food for consideration.

The neural pathways had become so ingrained, I wasn’t even questioning them anymore.

But the thing is, none of this is based on my own knowing. It’s all based on research or knowledge I’ve learned over the years from ‘experts’ that’s settled in deep into my psyche of ‘what’s allowed’.

And what’s ultra confusing is that at some level, every food plan I’ve ever read contradicts something in the other.

So, subconsciously, I have rules against every single food there is - even spinach (the oxalic acid, of course).

Do you see where this leads me? At some level I’ve reached the conclusion that all food is dangerous and not to be trusted.

(PSA interruption: I am not looking for nutritional guidance here. If you feel compelled to share your opinion with me, I would ask you to first look at what this article is bringing up for you and to hold that discomfort within yourself. If you are confronted, you will find your own restriction, control, or perfectionism there. It’s best if you sit with it first, and see what’s there for you. Then please feel free to share your process, downloads, or any aha’s you’ve received after you have met your own edges. I’m writing from my truth and trust you to hold me in that. If you feel the need to reach out to comfort me, again, check within to see if there is something in you that needs tending.)

Side note: coming up for breath, here. Dang this is a long intro to this piece, eh? I haven’t even gotten to the point yet. But don’t worry, it is coming, and it is so, so rich (See Layer #3 below).

So, the other night, I let myself eat Cheeze-Its.

A lot of Cheeze-Its (I’ve been in restricting mode, so this is completely normal from a body perspective even though we have made it wrong).

As expected, it took me right to my edge.

I met myself there.

Screams of “This is addiction! You must stop! Just don’t eat tomorrow and we can forget this ever happened. You will gain weight, and WHAT WOULD THAT SAY TO OTHERS ABOUT YOU?!”

And then, the deeper voice:

“Cheeze-Its are allowed.”

YOU are allowed. You may eat all the Cheeze-its your heart desires.

Instant integration.

Anxiety gone.

Permission granted.

I haven’t had a Cheeze-It since, but not because I can’t.

It’s because I CAN.

So the charge is gone.

Layer 1.

Then two nights ago, I ate deep dish pizza. I had two pieces and thought I was done. But then I wanted a third and I ate it.

Oh, holy hell.

Here came the spiral.

My mind was screaming and plotting and wanting to count calories to assess the damage I had done and what it would take to undo it.

So I heeded the invitation, and went right in.

I dropped into my body and gave the anxiety my breath and my attention. I said, it’s ok, you are allowed.

And, poof! It opened like a cloud and revealed my nine-year-old self in the fetal position.

Ashamed and bewildered and confused.

And I held her and cried the tears of grief she didn’t know how to express about what was happening to her.

I whispered in her ear, I’ve got you, my beautiful, precious child. You are allowed to be big and bold. You are so, so beautiful. You are safe. I will always have you.

Again, instant integration.

Layer 2.

(You see the theme here? Where I am triggered is where the expansion lies if I go in instead of try to resist it.)

But last night was the doozy of all doozies.

Layer motherfucking 3 (which is actually the point of this whole article).

I ate chipotle. And it wasn’t even good (what is wrong with that place? Ordering there collapses my nervous system, and it is the most inconsistent fast food joint. My food never tastes the same. Chipotle is now officially ‘not my joy’).

And then, because I was unsatisfied, I ate two cookies.

And then I ate the final thing on my ‘definitely not to be fucked with at any cost list’.

Sour patch kids.

And I skipped the gym.

Oh, the horror.

I told Christian, I need to be in process like now.

I closed the door to my room.

Lay down on my bed.

And let the panic feeling come over me.

It was a sense of wanting to cut off my own body parts.

Total self-denial.

And I heard a voice within scream in agony:

I hate myself, I hate myself, I hate myself!!

It sounded like me. Maybe my inner six-year-old. Like, when kids get in tantrums for something they did and they are trying to punish themselves.

It was very, very angry.

Self-directed anger.

More began bubbling up.

It had the essence of self-abuse. Self-harm. Self-destruction.

And suddenly there I was.

In a past lifetime as a man.

A religious ascetic.

It was my work in this lifetime to deny the flesh, as the ultimate act of worship and salvation.

I was seeking holy absolution.

I engaged in self-mortification.

I would wear a cilice (a spiked chain worn around the upper thigh).

I would strip myself and self-flagellate with a whip.

And above all, I would fast.

Food was sin.

Demonic.

Because it fed the body.

And flesh was dirty.

Unholy.

I literally beat myself and starved myself in the name of purification.

I hated my body, so I denied it nourishment.

I was skin and bones.

And this was holy. Pure. Clean. Good.

I celebrated the pain of my hunger, but I did not indulge it.

This was my penance.

And then a new lifetime presented itself.

One where I was female.

Curvy, fleshy, ample, and desirous.

In it, I can see that I am in devotion to my hunger, my need, whatever form she takes.

I have tasted the ‘forbidden fruit.’

It’s sticky juices run down my lips.

“Whore!” they call me.

I am beaten and punished.

Humiliated.

Put out on display for everyone to see.

Naked.

Spread open.

As the crowd looks on, taking pity on my mortal sin.

Disgusted by my vulgar flesh.

I am disgusting.

Back to the present moment and it all coalesces.

The messages in my subconscious:

Food is sin. My hunger is the demon. Fat and flesh and desire are unholy. I must punish myself. Hate myself. Be disgusted with myself. I have sinned. I must repent. Seek absolution by denying my pleasure. Escaping my body. Cutting pieces of her off with my whip and my torture tactics. In the name of God. Amen.

It’s hard for me to write more after this.

I feel I’ve said everything that needs to be said.

This is so much more than a ‘present day’ society thing.

The desecration of the body goes back.

Way back.

Crucified-level back.

These stories are our collective history.

The witches burned at the stake for being in devotion to The Feminine. And Her desires.

Those of us who are looking at this body-shame conditioning are breaking the chains not just of our inner children, but of lifetimes.

Whole entire universes.

I am in a space of questioning everything that we’ve bought into hook, line, and sinker. How we talk to each other about ‘feeling fat’ or ‘nutritional tips’ like we aren’t co-signing on and exacerbating each others’ disordered eating bullshit.

How much we conform, constrict, contort, and distort our bodies and our needs for others’ approval.

Seeing how much I’ve denied my hunger and made my desires wrong and punished parts of my body like “please, please go away.”

You can eat later. You will have to wait. You are not starving yet. You haven’t earned the right to eat.

My commitment is to no longer deny myself. Or minimize myself. Or make myself disappear in the name of ‘being good’.

To am here now to inhabit myself fully, and celebrate the space I take up.

To eat it up.

To be fully, richly, deeply, softly embodied.

Not trapped in the terrifying labyrinth of the mind.

I did a yoni stroking meditation the other day and cried tears of grief for all the ways Ive abandoned her.

Her hunger, her needs, her desires.

I had the feeling of expansion in me like one of those memory foam mattresses finally let out of its tight packaging.

Expanding from my womb so powerfully and completely that it is impossible to betray myself.

I felt the clunky weight of the truth of it drop:

My natural set point is perfect.

It vibrates out from my core, calling to it all that is in resonance with it.

No contortion required.

I love the deep and watery space I am in now. Emotions bubbling to the surface that have been locked down by my control, now free to rise in the grand space I hold. My expression of them - through tears, through my rest, through my writing.

I trust my experience completely.

And every time I hit a new edge where I thought I couldn’t go deeper, when I look at right at, She opens to me.

And I penetrate.

Deeper into my descent.

Exploring the tender, unknown, intense, orgasmic, raw, dark, cool, and exquisite space of The Down.

I invite you to join me.

And meet Yourself there.