The New York City Journals, Part V: The Next Life
Opening the next book of lessons, which led me here, unlocking the next level of my life, is divine affirmation...
Anticipatory denial is a complex bitch.
We are all waiting to die, more sure about the inevitability of a last earthly breath than anything else imaginable.
And any human claiming intrepidity in the face of their mortal fate is either a liar or blind to the cloak of many colors fear wears—all one thousand forms of it.
My favorite Uncle died recently, and I decided not to attend the funeral. My kid had no interest in enduring three-hour drives, to and fro, but that played a little role in the why, oh, I am acutely aware of the intent and the fear driving it.
Co-dependency. Yep, still, code after all these years—yes, and crazy, too, because anyone who ignores their intuitive voice of reason, denying the possibility that she's right this time, knowing damn well she is always right, is fucking insane.
This story isn't about death or insanity. It's about changing the game—allowing life to happen for me, not to me. It's about surrender; trusting that acceptance doesn't always mean tolerating, but sometimes, walking away.
This story is about choosing the future version of oneself and honoring her.
Were you expecting more than a bit of commentary on the twenty-year-old journal pages, supposedly subjective to this series, and the source of your sick entertainment and my raw nerve catharsis? Really?
Fret not; there is a connection. I trust it finds you well.
Below is a recent journal entry:
"As a child, I was taught living meant surviving at whomever's expense, and that receiving love, safety, acceptance meant allowing another to have all of me at my expense—at dangerous costs."
Hello, abandonment wound oozing with rancid puss.
Get that shit taken care of before it eats you alive, ya sicko!
No emotional wound heals by resting the open sores against those of another person. Covering traumatic injuries is for clean bandages and only after suturing the gaping hole.
Love, however, is not always tolerance; sometimes, love is walking away.
I was today-years-old when I finally understood that on a cellular level—it is uncomfortable to tell you that at nearly forty, but I must.
Secrets keep us sick, so here’s the dirty truth…
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