It’s not that I haven’t written in so long. It’s that I have written here, in this space that I share with you. The words in my journal are not that different from the words I would have previously shared and I continue to share with you. What more can I tell you? The pain? The disappointments? The endless doctor visits? The disease that tried to knock me down? Weekly therapy sessions? My hair falling out in chunks? Aren’t you tired of listening to my dolor? How can so much negativity be consumed time after time? I became exhausted with my own dejection. I want the permission to scream.
The last two weeks have been a foray into something new, now that I have a Kindergartner. The first week I was buying school supplies, a superhero book bag and finalizing Ishaan’s schedule for the next four months. It’s the perfectionist in me, the over-functioning Mom. Person? (It’s a new can of worms my therapist and I opened up.) This week he’s off two days and starts his swim classes and soccer. I suppose I’m craving simple normalcy–that is, after all, what most of us crave, right? Still, despite its lacking, I have sufficiently filled the mostly-normal days with stuff, and so I’m on my way into whatever life shall be, even if I’m not there yet.
Aside from writing things that I haven’t shared on the blog, I have accepted an invitation to be a Mentor in one of the writing classes I took 6 months ago. Mentors are “selected based on exemplary grades and support for other learners.” I’m stumbling to what it will look like, what kind of Mentor will I be, but I’m excited again to put my voice into something other than just my blog. I’ll also be starting a year-long Health Coach program and the idea that I will be studying something that has transformed me at a cellular level has me giddy. It’s awakened old parts of me.
Meditating also woke me up. I mean that wholly literally. I feel it chipping away my anxiety, right in the center of my chest. The tightness has softened. I know this because I can inhale profoundly, I see my chest expanding, feel open to new possibilities and unusually creative. And though my sleep patterns aren’t necessarily where I want them to be (8 hours at least please!), Ishaan hasn’t completely transitioned to his regular bedtime, I do wake up ravenously hungry to meditate, to start my day and for the foods that are most nourishing to me. I am starting to be more grateful for the pockets of time that I get to reserve for myself and my health. I won’t admonish myself for not having it done earlier. Beginning to emerge a life with a small child (though Ishaan remains so small to me in many ways) it’s not always doable and that’s alright.
There are bigger things that I am planning to tackle, but I’m also rather enjoying these sensations of settling in. Amid my mornings, while Ishaan and Tapas sleep, I meditate. I chant. I journal. I sit with Quiet, it’s energizing and restorative. A tonic for what’s been an ambiguous and distressing year.
Singing. I’m singing again. Several days ago I found myself singing to, “I Will Survive.” I sang obnoxiously loud, tears streamed down my face as I danced wildly in the middle of my living room. It was a combination of fuck-you-MS, my promise to my Son and a vow to Myself.
For all the times I have said I’m trying to enjoy the journey or some fluffy sentiment about Life, I meant it. And I mean it now more than ever.
What happened? Call it epiphany. Life experiences. Motherhood. My son’s cheery soul. Self-love. Tapas’ support. Lessons learned. Emancipation. That’s where all the energy is coming from. I don’t understand all the whys. What I do understand is that these tools I have been forging have lead me to this: It’s time to get to work. It’s time to work on Me.