Chapter 3: Emotional irresponsibility

November 3rd, 2018

Chapter 3: Emotional Irresponsibility

Good morning, good afternoon, or good evening to you. I hope these words find you in a comfortable, cozy, and warm space. I hope your heart has been held recently. I hope you know you are worthy of joy.

For those still getting to know me here — I am a story teller. I love sharing personal stories, especially when the topic is so often ignored in society. Without further ado, let’s dive in.

One year ago today, I was on a two-week RV adventure with my former partner and my daughter. We drove from San Jose to Astoria, Oregon and then back down on the coast. We were a year and half into our partnership at this point and had been navigating some rough storms leading up to this trip. The trip started off with tension as we had a miscommunication a few days prior that never got loved, acknowledged, or resolved. The trip was a blend of light and dark. Joy and sorrow. Beginnings and endings. There is so much I could share about this trip, because it was so fucking dynamic, but what I want to acknowledge is the major theme that was present then: Emotional irresponsibility.

We spent most of that trip blaming one another. In fact, we spent a greater portion of our relationship blaming one another. More than not, our emotions, triggers, and experiences were blamed rather than owned. Essentially, we were two wounded children masking around as adults in a relationship. Yikes.

On November 3rd, I wrote my first poem in that RV after another fight. A fight about sex, or lack there of rather. Yep – I just told you that. I remember feeling terrified at the words that were coming through in that moment. I opened the notes app on my phone and began to type. I won’t share the poem here, because this will build anticipation, but just know that the first poem I ever wrote is what inspired me to write a book. That first poem changed the course of my life. That first poem is the first page of my first book. I finished my book just two days ago, one year after writing my that poem.

Two days after that poem was written, our partnership ended. In the most dramatic way, too. But I’ll spare you that story for now.

This break-up truly changed the course of my life. The amount of sadness and pain I felt the months following that is perhaps indescribable through words. I remember not wanting to move any part of my body. Crying more than I ever had in my entire adulthood. Watching movies all day every day to distract me from my discomfort. Avoiding meditation and asana because I was scared what would come up. Wondering when I would pick my self up again and attempt to move forward with my life.

About a week later I attended a Saturday morning yoga class with one of my favorite teachers who also happened to be my acupuncturist at the time. This was my first morning alone since the break-up as my daughter was at her fathers for the weekend. I don’t know where the motivation came from, I just new I needed to leave my apartment and attempt to nourish my heart.

About half way in to class, Bridget said the words “ecstatic dance.” I immediately made eyes with her like I had just heard the secret of life. I hadn’t heard that term in a long time, four years to be exact. The first time I experienced an ecstatic dance was in 2013 in Bali. I assumed it was just a Bali thing and never even thought to look it up once I got back in the states. As soon as the class ended, I jumped on google and searched for local ecstatic dances. To my surprise, they were EVERYWHERE in the bay area. I remember wanting to go as soon as I could and started looking at the closest cities and their offerings. There was a dance that evening in Santa Cruz and another the next morning in Oakland. I was convinced I would go to both but as the day moved along, and my energy started to drop, I decided my first ecstatic dance in four years would be a Sunday morning in Oakland. And oh, that dance. I will never forget how nervous and excited I felt to attend. I walked in, heart pounding out of my chest, and sat on the floor with my eyes closed. I felt so much adrenaline pumping through me, so much energy wanting to be moved, patiently waiting to be moved, sort of like my inner wise woman was freaking out with excitement, “Finally! You are here!”

I have danced every week since that day. In Oakland, San Francisco, Palo Alto, and Santa Cruz. Each dance, getting me a little bit closer to my truest self; My most authentic self. Each dance encouraging me to move through stories, feelings, wounds, and sensations. Each dance connecting me with others, experiencing similar yet different things. Each dance reminding me that the ultimate healer in this life, is me.

Today, I claim to be emotionally aware and responsible. I have spent the last year connecting with my inner wise woman, navigating core childhood wounds, healing those wounds, and owning MY experiences. Have I fucked up a bit? Of course. Have I blamed the external along the way? I’m sure. But the difference now, in reflection to last year at this time, is that I am in my power. I am rooted in self. I fuck up and then I own the shit out of my fuck up. I take responsibility for my emotions. My actions. My choices. My stories. My projections. My wounds.

I take full responsibility for my happiness.

Today, I am really really happy.
Today, I am really really proud.
Today, I am really really in love.
With me.

And dear reader, as a reminder, in case you need one today, the pain will pass. The discomfort you may be experiencing now will move. The challenges you face will provide a lesson in time. But here’s the thing, there’s no timeline for this stuff. You have got to be patient with your self. Gentle. Loving.
You have got to honor the fucking hell out of your self and what you are going through. Trust me. Move into the discomfort. Dance around with the darkness.
The light will find its way back to you heart.
It always does.

With so much gratitude,
BG

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