Critical. It's a spirit. It's a very being that decides you even. It bores into fresh breathes. It makes its way jagged like into your core just the same. And sideways, crooked & festering, it lives of you. Off you, too. Symbiotically, you are cohabitants. One of the other. Sour. Sick. Swollen with disgust.
Changing the mood ring of yourself is not as simple as you would think. I say this not for pity or for some prideful ribbon pinning on my chest. I say this for real. Real in that I can't carry this space I write into new and better unless I write for the lot of us. For the entire entourage of humans out there that just might stumble only to land here.
I write for the chambers of me. The ones that I dig deep into so to gut out the contamination. So to battle the demons whose very life vessels, at times, feel like they are the exact same ones from which my organs gulp their air.
I've lived all my life with a push. I've worked all of my life responding with a pull. This back-n-forthedness of motion is exhilarating. It's energizing. And exhausting. For long stretches of the labor, I wasn't quite sure the reasons for my sweat droplets and hunched over back. I simply sanded for someone else. I longed for the smooth and finished edges of their approval. For smiles & nodding with head pats over my finished works.
Critical. It's a spirit. And it's a very being that decides you even. It chose me. It lives here in my tangled vessels as I reach more and more and more each day to eradicate and extinguish its life support here on my insides. And as much as I want it gone. And as much as I want rid of its nasty hideaway spots, I live it out each day. I fight inside. I sucker punch sending horrible swear words inwardly.
And this battle? Well, it's part courageous and part cowardly. I am brave when I push self-judgement aside. I am equally chicken when I simply throw rocks at it there in my corners only to turn and duck out of fear. Whole consuming and masterfully powerful. Yes, this spirit has hold on me.
This evicting war is never really over. It's the battle of time. And in this hour of my life, I now I own the energy a little more. I am learning what is worth my push & my pull. I am laying my face flat on my Savior when sour consumes me. With tired eyes and scared-that-I'm-gonna-screw-it-all-up perspiring from my person, I cry out, "Help me. Jesus, I'm so scared." Yes, critical. It's a spirit.
Huge swells inside me rock. Ones that make me nauseated to be even of my very skin. This feeling is real. It's not made up or overly dramatic. For those of you reading who know this eviction process like me, I have no doubt you could finish my words faster than even I have the feeling to type them.
This criticalness comes from learning worth in an entirely unhealthy way. It's as if being the snow globe there on your insides wasn't enough. It's was that guided decision that, yes, you were only beautiful when shook. Then, with big, crazed snowflakes cascading down about. Yes, then. That's when you were enough.
Sweet, Jesus. I fight not just for myself. I do so with an enormous strength, fire-like inside me, as I don't want to disturb 2 little boys' globes. I don't want them learning that worth only comes when you're shook. I don't want to push-pull them into something smooth.
Critical. It's a spirit. It's a very being that decides you even. And my decision to labor and lug out the unhealthy inside me brings me to a place where I know my hands aren't the ones holding the sand paper.