I fell off for a bit. I got caught up in the perfectionist loop and thought I needed to be “smarter” about how to upkeep these musings. I waited until my site was “perfect” and then moved everything over because, in theory, that was the right thing to do.
It might still very well be the “right” thing to do but in my quest for perfect, I strangled my momentum and stopped speaking out loud. When I don’t write, that doesn’t mean the conversations don’t still happen. They just happen internally instead and that is when things can get dicey.
I’m on my 2nd therapist in 3 months and I’d love to take the blame for therapist hopping but the truth is less scandalous. My first one is no longer at the place where I get treatment and I had to find someone else who I’m not 100% about but done is better than perfect right?
I’m between “it’s only February” and “it’s already February.”
Time seems to go by the fastest when you’re trying to ignore everyone around reaching milestones you question for yourself. And then time slows down enough for you to revel in the sadness of realizing what you’ve given up.
“Is this it?” is the question that comes up a lot. “What if this is it?” feels like a spiritual gut punch because in the haze of hustling you know that you’ve given up on a lot but it doesn’t hit you the gravity of those losses until you’re forced to confront the consequences of your choices.
2022 was a gut punch everywhere I looked but it was no different than any other time.
2022 was just the time I realized I had been gut punching myself all along and I couldn’t unsee how much of a role I played in creating a life that was not worth the sacrifices.
I changed the name of this Substack from My Overwhelmed Mind to Sacred Blemishes because I felt like it was more reflective of the writing I want to do with this digital journal.
Blemishes are imperfections but only to those who expect perfection.
This is probably the hardest unraveling I’ve undertaken and recognize it’s where I still need to do “work.” Intellectually I know that blemishes are normal and not the end of the world but emotionally I need to embody and accept that the flaws which make me quirky and cute are the same blemishes that allow me to help others transmute their own sadness into purpose.
I got into therapy because my primary didn’t want to prescribe anti-depressants without addressing if I have undiagnosed Bipolar. The new therapist suggested I might have OCD and ADHD. I’m still functioning without meds, without a diagnosis, and without a clue on how to curb the intruding thoughts. But I do have a laptop, WiFi, and Substack as an alternative to sort shit out.
I know palm trees are better than any SSRI right now but until that option is able to present itself, I’m dodging Arctic blasts and self-soothing with Netflix. And before you ask, while I do have some serious inner conflicts with moving to a state with the evil governor doing horrible shit, I remember that I am in a city with a cop mayor doing evil things too.
If I am going to surrender the expectation of perfect, I might want to start there with less judging.
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