My instinct for self-protection is deep. It’s rooted in my childhood, maybe in past lives, or dream lives that recur. It is a dark entity disguised as safety.
I’ve been in a holding pattern. I almost gave up. Remember that, a few weeks ago? That was before I ran away from all the words that might give freedom to the scary feelings. Conveniently, I accidentally ingested gluten and was consequently out of action for a few days.
Then, a few more.
It didn’t seem possible that I had slipped so badly and eaten an amount to warrant this kind of physical distress. Then, I caught a cold. How extraordinarily convenient. Success coupled with someone questioning my process is all it takes for me to dissolve. Especially when that success is gaining momentum and I open up to the excitement and energy of the ride, only to slam into self-doubt in the form of a loved one who challenges my why.
If I were truly centred, and trusted my direction and motivation, this would not be an issue at all, would it? This pattern is old and worn, like a comfortable and stretched out knitted jumper. It has holes and a few patches, and it stretches right up over my head when I need to disappear.
The prospect of failure is terrifying.
Failure itself is not a huge deal. I’ve failed before and learned my most exciting lessons. If I try and fail all by myself, without anyone else knowing about it, I find it exhilarating and kind of trippy. Anticipating judgement should I fail, though, that is the corrosive agent.
Understand what I am saying. It is not the act of failure, nor the actual judgement of someone other than myself that is the instigating horror. Once those things have been enacted, they simply are. I can deal with that.
The thing that rots, that worms its way into my psyche, is already there inside the apple of my mind.
It is only ever me.