For someone who considers herself a pacifist, I sure do put a lot of energy into fighting. If you could peer inside my skull, you would witness an almost constant battle going on from the time I open my eyes in the morning to the time I close them at night. Sometimes I even wage war in my dreams. It’s exhausting.
So what am I fighting against, you ask? That’s where it gets kind of ridiculous: I’m fighting against myself. More precisely, I’m fighting against those pesky thoughts that come at me with amazing speed and from all directions practically nonstop. They chase after me, pressing down upon my shoulders with surprising force. They nag me about things I should be doing or things I shouldn’t have done, criticize me, berate me, . . . — you get the idea. I swat them away diligently, only to watch them flit up momentarily before coming at me again even harder. Granted, sometimes I don’t fight. Sometimes I simply run the hell away. I invent things for myself to do to stay busy so I don’t notice them quite as much. But they’re still there, buzzing like a jackhammer in the background to remind me that they’ll be waiting when I pause for a breath.
Lately, though, I’ve been getting better at not running. And not fighting. Oh, I still do, of course, but rather than blindly hauling ass or mindlessly flailing my arms at the pesky creatures, I’ve started to catch myself, forcing myself to stop and look the little shits in the face. And you know what? They’re really not all that horrible. Per my intention to “invite Mara to tea,” I’ve been trying to be more accepting of whatever pops up. And believe me, shit definitely pops up. But when I don’t freak out about it and obsess about how awful and disgusting and gross it is but instead just say, “oh, yeah, there’s some shit again. Hi, shit! How ya doin? I’ve been expecting you,” things go a lot more smoothly. It takes away some of the sting.