As I joined my mat on the floor for my first yoga class in almost two weeks, my body groaned, cramped and rebelled and the yoga instructor said “I want you to practice mindfulness with a mantra tonight. Find something to tell yourself that encourages you to keep going.” Usually, while I find all the stretchiness and strengthening of yoga to be a huge plus, the mindfulness talk and yammering on about manifesting is a big turn off for me. I’m all about the body and soul…but I’ve spent most of my life trying to avoid my mind. Mindfulness and mantras? Naw…mindmelting and meds have always been more my thing.

But tonight, the yoga instructors nasally southern drawl managed to drift past my resistance and I considered for just a moment that I might actually have something nice to say to myself. As my left ribs seized up and little daggers started stabbing my hip joints, my mind handed me the word “Victorious” as my mantra for tonight’s practice. This is NOT a word that made sense and it certainly hasn’t been the thought following me around all day today. After almost a solid week of sleeping, binge eating and avoiding consciousness as much as possible, “Failure,” “Perpetual Fuck Up” and “Might as Well Fucking Die” have been my mantras as I packed three full bags of trash to the dumpster and tackled the general foulness and funkiness of everything about my body and home. Victorious? What. The. Actual. Fuck?

Last night, after hitting a personal low that I can’t even bring myself to describe in this anonymous unread blog, I lied in bed and listened to a storm rage outside. I’m not sure what it was about the storm that broke through my prolonged mental absence, but at some point before falling asleep, I made the decision to make today different. And I did. Not perfect…


I fucking hate this post. Normally I would just exit and save it to drafts to be ignored and forgotten. But I’m tired of writing nothing, doing nothing and getting nowhere. Yes….I cleaned up my condo today and I grunted and flopped through a fucking yoga class with the word “Victorious” spouting out of me about as often as one of my endless farts. But goddamn…I’ve been here and done this a millions times already and I’m tired of writing these fucking worthless posts about how I learned something about myself or become a little more peaceful or what the fuck ever. I am going to do it again and again…I’ll climb back in bed and eat myself into a coma again, then wake up and wash my nasty body and my sheets and write a little diddly about how it’s all better now. Fuck this shit. I’m tired of my own bullshit and I’m tired of writing little posts and lying to myself. Was today victorious??? Well then, I’m tired of being victorious and I’m tired of fixing everything that gets fucked up when I climb into bed for days at a time and abuse my prescription meds in order to stay asleep and avoid life. I’m tired of stretching out muscles that have been frozen into a fetal position. I’m tired of trying to digest a grotesque amount of food. I’m tired of cracking myself open and reviving my dead mind and body in order to pretend I am alive.

I just want to sleep. Sleep. Sleep. Sleep. When I’m asleep, I’m not lonely. When I’m asleep, I’m not ashamed and haunted. When I’m asleep, I’m not worried or scared. When I’m asleep, I don’t have to worry that I’ll try to fuck somebody. When I’m asleep, I don’t have to worry about saying things I shouldn’t say. When I’m asleep, I don’t have to feel the endless ache of emotional hunger that food can never touch. When I’m asleep, I’m not old and wasted. When I’m asleep, I’m not a failure with a destroyed life and career. When I’m asleep, I’m not fighting for my sanity. When I’m asleep, I don’t have to fucking live this fucked up life with all these fucked up memories and regrets. When I’m asleep, I’m able to breathe.

I really did try to write a post tonight to convince myself that everything was better, that I was victorious because I got out of fucking bed…that I was something akin to the sunrise that peeked out of the storm clouds this morning. But nah…that’s not authentic. I’m tired, constipated, weary and dreading another day and another chance to fuck it all up.

“Victorious.” Pfsdfffgt. What the fuck ever.

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