la douleur exquise

I had one of those dreams last night, those dreadful dreams, and by dreadful I mean it gnawed at something inside of my soul that I desperately want, so much so, that when I started to come awake, the dream version of me started panicking, running around dreamland crazed to find a hiding spot, no, no, you can't wake up, you can't leave yet, there is unfinished business here! I could feel my brain resisting, trying to mentally put the brakes on waking up, while dream me cried, fight it, while clawing at the remnants.

I can't go back yet, I'm still lost.

But I woke up. And instantly I could feel the weight of the dream on me, like a sopping wool blanket, holding me to the bed. And I felt sad. I won't go into details about the dream for two reasons, one I know for a fact that bores the shit out of people and two, the significance of it is something I want to hold protectively close to my chest. But I will tell you this, the french say it best: it was la douleur exquise.

I didn't know if I had it in me today. I lay in bed for a few moments contemplating the sadness, like a Rubik's cube I wasn't really sure I had the energy to tackle. A part of me wanted to stay lost. Stay in bed. Stay sad. But that looked and already felt rather bleak, so I whipped the covers off of me, got dressed immediately, putting the kibosh on staying in my pj's all day and went downstairs to write--my therapy.

I still could feel the ache deep in my core but I fought it off while I concentrated on my pep. I am always trying to maintain my pep as I thoroughly dislike the blues. Once I finished my writing, however I decided to call a friend who always has phenomenal insight. I told him all my best news first: Apartments, and writing, and New York, Oh My!

And then I told him about my dream. And that I was fighting my sadness something fierce. I mean it was a raging battle that I was fending off with a sharp stick, swinging in all directions to protect myself. His response,

"There's something special about being sad. It shows that you're alive."

Yeah. He's good. After I ended the call I thought long and hard about that. And his further advice to embrace the sadness. I decided to dip my pinky toe into the sad pool and let myself feel a little. Okay, a little was alright. Not a lot though. I don't particularly care for a lot of sad.

But then it hit me and I needed to just have at it, put down my weaponry and wave the white flag of defeat, at least for today. I cried. A lot. Wept and curled into myself and what do you know? I feel better having cried and felt.

But it scares me because I know it's not enough. That was a nice little start. But what if I gave in fully? Where would I be then? I remember my first week at the ranch attempting to hold back tears during a horrendous workout that made me all too aware of my many inadequacies. To no avail, one tear trickled down my cheek anyway while I tried to somehow pull it back up with my mind so no one would see, especially Bob. He saw. And pulled me aside after the workout.

He asked me who I was being strong for.

Everyone, I replied.

He asked why. That was weird, I thought.

Because I have to be.

He probed further and asked why I wouldn't just let myself cry. Let myself cry if I needed to cry.

I am afraid if I start I'll never stop. I'll fall apart.

He said maybe I needed to fall apart.


And I know that maybe I need to again. Maybe in order to get stronger, I just have to embrace the struggle, the sadness, the twists of life, but still, I find myself clinging to my old ways. It's beyond me why I think I can never be sad, nor show it, like that's somehow a weakness, undesirable trait, or flaw.

I know it's human. And I know my pep is something I can always count on. But sometimes, you just have to cry. And not pretend you're okay.

But with that being said,

Cheers to being alive.

Very alive indeed.