MyFucking Feelings

The not so subtle art of sitting with yourself

I just turned in the second draft of my third book, finally coming out of my writing hole and had a revelation. Because I felt down last night and didn’t know why. Something I feel often. I understand artists and comedians, truly, people who can moonwalk in public while drowning behind closed doors. I have that. I don’t know what it is. But I have it as well. I don’t think many know. It comes after I stop.

My mornings are always filled with hope. That may be why I get up at 5:30am. It’s me climbing out of that slippery well. Nights are hard for me. I don’t know why. I feel dread and hopelessness, and wonder if there is a point to all this. It’s all temporary anyway. Generally, if I’m not busy and moving in life, conceiving ideas and being “productive”, I sink. Pretty fast. And I wonder if that’s why my dad worked so much. That was my big revelation. He was always either living in the clouds or thought the sky was falling. There was no middle. He was happy and light and silly, like nothing bothered him, or afraid and miserable, like the world was trying to trap him. He was dancing or running. Dancing or running. I am the same. I’m not sure how much of that is nurture and how much of that is nature. How much of that is addiction wiring and how much of that is conditioning. How much of that is truth and how much of that is coping. Maybe not being present was his way of surviving. I never thought of it that way. Until last night.

It’s not about balance. I think balance can gray you the fuck out and keep you luke warm. You’ll never be great at anything unless you’re obsessed. But you do have to sit with yourself. Because the discomfort of that is where truth, clarity, and sanity lives. That’s what’s tricky about pouring yourself into something. You need to lose yourself to produce good work and be potent in your craft. But not so much that you don’t come back. Because if you don’t, your life suffers. And what’s a good life if you’re just good at what you do but not actually living it? To me, that is suffering.

Coming back is what’s hard. Not just in art. But also in relationships. Work. Fitness. Food. Drugs. Anything where you don’t have to sit with yourself and your feelings. Most people don’t have a problem losing themselves. It’s coming back that’s hard.

And the come back is what sitting with yourself looks like. It’s where vulnerability lives. Vulnerability isn’t just about expressing your feelings. It’s the art and practice of sitting with yourself. Breathing. Not reacting. With intention and long enough to see what is residue and what is actual truth. That is the only way you can really show yourself, or what you’re showing is your past.

Because you can’t be here if you are always running.

I’ve been grabbing and chasing things for a very long time. I have held happy in my other hand. It all leads to a giant circle, spiraling downward. And the longer you stay in it, the longer you disconnect with yourself.

To brake, you must practice sitting with you. Place logic on a high shelf and drop into your body. Find the spirit of who you are and hold it. With two hands. Because it may have never have been held. Well, not by you. Stop playing what happened.

Stop running.

Because clouds part and the sky will not fall.

And nothing is forever.

  • Angry

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Author of “I Used To Be A Miserable F*CK” and “Single. on Purpose.” IG: theangrytherapist

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