Here’s the thing. This magically infused, enchanted conscious quantum leap I’m on is demanding that I be honest. That I come clean. That I unpack the baggage and look at it for what it is. Make peace with it. Do something about it. And since that is the case, then I should admit that I am guilty of abuse: neglect, psychological abuse, physical abuse, and imprisonment. I’m not proud of it, but it’s true.
Here’s what I mean. There are four parts to your being, as far as I can see - or at least for the sake of this writing. There is the soul, it powers the whole thing. It’s the whole reason we’re here. It’s the driving force. It is here to have a human experience. You are a spirit with a body, not a body with a spirit. Next is the mind. The mind is the computer that processes the information that the soul receives while it’s in the human body. Then there’s the heart, which is what allows the soul to experience emotion. And then, of course, there’s the flesh and bones, the body, the avatar that allows you to inhabit this realm of being - this matrix, this hologram, this illusion. We all live together. We're a family, but we are each individual entities, too. Soul. Mind. Heart. Body. And while I’m passionate about my spiritual life, adore playing in my mental playground, and love hard with all my heart, I am absolutely, 100%, undeniably guilty of abuse and neglect when it comes to my body. If there were such a thing as the body police, I’d be arrested and thrown in jail.
I do not eat consistently. Sometimes I eat cereal at 11 a.m. and nothing for the rest of the day, some days I don’t eat much throughout the day but make a veggie burger or veggie dog before work. Some days, all I do is eat junk food like cookies, nutter butters, ice cream, soda, potato chips, and other junk food. I do not eat vegetables. In other words, I’m starving myself of nutrients and stuffing myself with sugary fillers. I’ve lived on soda, candy bars, and caffeine, and previously nicotine, and have never cared about what’s good for me. If I don’t like it, I don’t eat it. End of. (I threw that in for the Kate Stewart Ravenhood Series fans).
I don’t like to eat unless it’s restaurant food. It’s no wonder I don’t have energy. How can I expect my body to perform well when I continuously keep it in a state of malnourished? Straight up neglect. And what’s the result? Shin bones that shattered like dusty clay relics hit with a hammer.
And what’s that? Physical abuse. I broke my own bones.
Now I’m sporting a 12-inch titanium rod in my right leg, held in with screws in my knee and my ankle. I get bone infusions twice a year that I’ll have to stay on for life or my bone state reverts and gets worse than before I started getting them. I’m so traumatized from the event that I’m afraid to do anything physical because I’m afraid to fall. I’m even afraid to walk on uneven ground. I need to heal the trauma and do the physical therapy on my leg (and back!) that I continuously ignore.
I do not exercise, and it has nothing to do with my leg. I don’t like movement. I don’t like sweat. I don’t like breathing hard. I don’t like contorting my body. I don’t like the way my body aches afterward. I don't like that people might see me working out. (Or that people would see me at all). I don’t like that I don’t know how to work out properly, in spite of spending thousands of dollars over my lifetime with personal trainers. I feel like I need an AI app that will customize exercises to my needs. I’m tempted to get one and may do just that as I gear up to get physical again. I want to be in good shape when I get to Kentucky. I want to have energy. I want to be healthy. I want to look cute in my new witchy wardrobe (which I don’t have yet but am dreaming up so I can put it together as I can afford). I also want to feel more confident in my body. Maybe I wouldn’t be so afraid of dating if I felt like I was more attractive physically. I think part of the reason I’m struggling psychologically with age.
Psychological abuse? I’ve got that covered, too. How many times do I tell myself I’m ugly? Multiple times daily. I mean, I catch myself doing it, I’m aware of it, I know it’s not healthy, I know that’s what I’m manifesting, but it’s a thought I struggle with. I know I’m not my thoughts. I tell myself I’m fat. I tell myself that because I don’t have a pristine smile, and that because I have bags under my eyes, and because I have a history I’m ashamed of, that I’m unworthy of love. I tell myself I’m lazy, unproductive, and should be way further along in life than I currently am at my age.
Imprisonment? Yep, that, too. I never let myself leave my apartment. Ever. Well, I do to go to the doctor, have my blood tested, and get my infusion eight weeks later, but that's only every six months. Other than that, I do not go out. Have no desire. I don't go clubbing. I don't want to be part of a book club. There are no coffee shops where I live, and I don't want to pay an Uber to get into Omaha and back. I used to go out to get a mani/pedi, but cut out those expenses, too. I tell myself that I'll live more when I get to Kentucky, and I will. It's familiar. I lived there for 13 years. It's small. But as for the past two years? Captive.
So the next step in my quantum leap is to stop abusing myself. It’s illegal. I need to eat better, exercise, love myself, and allow myself a chance to rest without guilt. The problem is, I’ve gotten this kind of inspired before, gave it a good week or two, made TikToks and Facebook Posts while I’m doing it so I get the credit (what’s that? A need for external validation?). But, they say the only way you fail is to stop trying, so I’m still trying.
I’d like to get to about 150 pounds and about a size 8 clothes. I’d like to have enough energy to have outings with the family without getting tired. I’d like to live fully without being afraid that my body won’t sustain me, or forcing my kids to care for me if I have a heart attack or stroke. I need to love myself.
I have 8.5 months until I move. I want to be transformed by then. At the same time, I’m growing out my hair, no longer dying it, no longer cutting it. In my vision of future me, I have long salt and pepper hair. I like it. I want it. I’m starting now.
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