I’ve only heard two people tell me that I treated them poorly. One was a narcissist. The other was too young to understand how being treated well might appear. No one else, not my family members, my co-workers, or even previous lovers have told me I wasn’t good to them.
That many people can’t be wrong.
In fact, my ex-husband told me I was the best wife he’s ever had AND the best ex he’s ever had. How’s that for treating someone poorly? No. I treat people accordingly and often, I’m too damn nice.
To the two people who have told me I treated them poorly, I have hundreds of testimonies that outweigh your two feeble complaints. If you feel persecuted by everyone around you, including me, maybe you should check in with yourself and ask why?
That many people can’t be wrong.
©2019. I.O. Kirkwood. All rights reserved. Pictures may be subject to copyright.
Right now, I am in the throes of that irritable anxiety that makes it impossible to do much of anything. This is the reality of Bipolar II. This is what I have managed to overcome until lately.
The irritable anxiety is the worst part for me. I don’t want to do anything. I’m pushing myself to write this. The only thing that breaks my heart is that I’ve finally discovered why I’ve relapsed on a weekly basis.
Going into the office.
I go in every Monday and have watched my mental health deteriorate. It gets worse as time goes on. I get intensely anxious and when I arrive, I am intensely irritable. Panic attacks skirt the edges of my awareness.
I am exhausted, emotional, and unable to rein in the symptoms like I can out in the field, or in my personal life. This happens on Monday and bleeds into Tuesday. The relapses take away from my sales work.
I can’t spend my entire Tuesday thinking, “I want to die,” just because I went into the office the day before.
I used to love my job and the company even if there were problems. They offer a product that is meaningful and brings relief to those in need. I invested my talents into this company for 16 years (!) only to have our entire office, my work family, become disposable.
Those who remain and those who left, have confirmed my viewpoint. I am not alone in this. I am not overreacting. The place makes us physically ill and, in my case, assaults me with Bipolar symptoms.
I don’t want to go into the office anymore. I want to close sales, despite the crappy leads I’ve been given. I want to bring the company’s products to the people who need them. I don’t want to sacrifice my mental and emotional health to do so.
Something’s got to give. I can’t spend my entire Tuesday thinking, “I want to die,” just because I went into the office the day before. It’s time to get out of the pool.
I’m tired of drowning.
©2019. I.O. Kirkwood. All rights reserved for text. Images may be subject to copyright.
In addition to the lovely and vicious Bipolar II, I also have several of her escorts: OCD, PTSD, General Anxiety Disorder, and Major Depressive Disorder. The anxiety and depression are responding to the medication. Even the PTSD is tempered, but the Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder requires a medication that makes all the rest harder to manage.
OCD is a fear of death or a sense of impending misfortune if certain rituals aren’t performed. Sometimes you only have one element, but usually the two stomp hand-in-hand through a sufferer’s life.
Obsession is an idea or thought that continually occupies or intrudes on a person’s mind. The obsession is always unsettling, agitating, and/or terrifying. One of my “favorite” obsessions was visions of wrapping my infant in plastic wrap and watching him die.
He’s still alive, just turned 19, in case you were wondering. But I don’t watch the news anymore for obvious reasons. What? You think I came up with that shit on my own?
Compulsion is an irresistible urge to behave in a certain way, especially against one’s conscious wishes. My life was a nightmare at one point. I woke up at night and had to leave the comfort of my bed to perform a ritual of considerable complexity.
I tried to fight it. I would lie in bed and stare at the ceiling as anxiety built in my chest, as the compulsion fed itself from my powerful imagination. It’s like Restless Leg Syndrome, only in my mind. The feeling drove me from my bed and into a loop of obnoxious and sometimes frightening behaviors.
“Logically, I knew this was a ridiculous waste of time and peace of mind, but I couldn’t stop the cycle.”
My ritual began with the front door. Is it locked? Never mind that I locked it myself before going to bed that evening. Afterwards I checked the sliding door and the steel back door in the basement.
After that, I walked up the stairs and checked the deck’s sliding door. Once that was done, I would check the knobs on the gas stove to make sure they were off. Then I would sniff around the stove to make sure I didn’t smell any gas.
Then I would visit my three-year old’s room. I would lick my finger and place it under his nose to make sure he was still breathing. Finally, I would return to my room, at which time I would shake out all the blankets over my sleeping ex’s body to make sure no Brown Recluse spiders lay in wait.
I followed this exact ritual three to four times a night for several months. There were no deviations in the order of the steps. Logically, I knew this was a ridiculous waste of time and peace of mind, but I couldn’t stop the cycle. The PTSD didn’t help at all because all of my obsessions and compulsions were safety-driven.
“I do believe that the rise of mental illness in America has been created over generations of dysfunctional coping mechanisms.”
The struggle is real, my friends. We all joke about how people we know seem OCD. But it’s not very funny. The humor alleviates the discomfort of those who don’t understand.
OCD isn’t the hell of Bipolar. It’s the purgatory of physiological brain illnesses. As if you are redeeming yourself while you struggle to shed these obsessions and compulsions.
OCD keeps you up at night. It destroys relationships, causes hoarding, and can develop into agoraphobia. I know from personal experience on all the above. I know the illness doesn’t go away, not completely.
I do believe that the rise of mental illness in America has been created over generations of dysfunctional coping mechanisms. Passed down from mother to daughter, father to son, the symptoms have increased in intensity as the culture feeds off the illness.
It’s like a chicken-versus-the egg kind of scenario. Is it physiology or culture that creates these neurotic chicks? I’m not a medical professional, so I can’t answer that question based on research, but my personal experience is that the hereditary, default factory settings create a predisposition.
“In our American culture of violence against women and children, regardless of gender, OCD is a sickness that blames the prey for not escaping.”
Example: your family may have a default factory setting for heart disease. Will it manifest in you? Depends. There is no condition in the physiology yet, only the possible development of the condition. Outside factors contribute, but it might only take one Twinkie to trigger the condition.
Society is a merciless trigger. The relentless lack of security in American culture develops the predisposition into a nightmare for the sufferer. Violence, abuse, social shaming, and other boundary violations are prime culprits.
OCD is an illness of fear, of an intense desire to feel secure. Because you have experienced some sort of violence, you become susceptible to the condition. It only takes one event. One. In our American culture of violence against women and children, regardless of gender, OCD is a sickness that blames the prey for not escaping.
Contra-social behavior should be treated as an illness and early on. I can’t imagine any child going out of his or her way to behave in a manner that causes ostracization from the peer group. Unchecked, the behavior is purposefully exaggerated by some teenagers. That’s when it looks deliberate but it’s still an illness. And yes, some of them are socio- and psycho-paths, but that’s still an illness.
“My Rx is this: Kindness, Awareness, and Compassion.”
I have suggestions on how to reduce the number of people who develop the illness. How about we all take a vow to be kind to each other? Some of our number will always disappoint, but there are plenty of “well” people out there who could create a safety net for those who are at risk.
My Rx is this: Kindness, Awareness, and Compassion. Learn about boundaries and what happens when those boundaries are violated. Understand that contra-social behavior is not a moral weakness but a physical one.
Reach out to those who could use some help. Gently nudge your “anti-social” and/or “self-destructive” friend to get help, whether a type of therapy, medication, or both. They may just be socially awkward but better safe than struggling with remorse.
You don’t have to do any of the above, but those around you, the ones who hurt, would be very grateful if you did.
©2018. I.O.Kirkwood. All rights reserved for text. Image may be subject to copyright.
Considering recent news, I wanted to add my two cents into the dialogue. I feel I’m qualified to enlighten those of you who think that suicide is “sudden.”
The human instinct to survive is Herculean in its efforts to keep one alive. It is damn near impossible to want to end one’s own life. I’ve read stories of people amputating limbs to survive. Better to bleed to death trying to escape than lay down and die.
The only time, the only time, a human feels the need to take his own life is when the torture of existence is too great to bear. Even seppuku is an attempt to escape unbearable shame, one that would follow the person to the ends of the earth. Better to avoid the pain all together.
But suicide is not a mind-set in the West. It isn’t a cry for attention. It’s the last resort.
I’ve said before that I had planned my own suicide. I can hear the reactions now if I’d followed through: “She’s the last person I would have expected to commit suicide.” “She was always so bubbly and full of life.” “She was always willing to help and always wore a smile.”
Even my children would have been shocked, and they lived with me through the worst of my battle.
We only hear about the successful suicides.
The “sudden” suicides.
But this is the norm for people who suffer from bipolar. The untreated condition sucks the joy out of living and turns the sufferer into a non-functioning lump of self-loathing.
You cannot conflate healthy depression with bipolar II or any other “mental” illness. If you are one of the many lucky ones, you have no idea and I would never want you to understand from personal experience.
Emotional pain isn’t enough to cause suicide. If you are legitimately depressed because of a death in the family or a break up, that’s normal. You aren’t going to kill yourself. You’ll work through it and each day, the pain will recede just a little.
Maybe you won’t eat or will eat too much. Maybe you won’t sleep or will sleep too much. You might cry for a month, but it’s not the same kind of depression that someone with bipolar experiences. It’s not something you can escape. My body refuses to cooperate.
The hallmark of bipolar II is the mixed state. This state is a combination of depression and anxiety. The sicker I got, the worse it got. It took every drop of my energy to function at work. I had a constant buzz in my head, like a table saw, and often, it buzzed through the tender flesh in my head.
I not only feel emotionally ill, I am physically ill during a mixed state. The force of a migraine, that stabbing agony behind one eye, the nausea, the vertigo, attacks my entire head. My joints ache.
I went to the hospital during an episode and they could find nothing wrong with me. The prognosis was an “atypical” migraine, whatever the hell that means. I was in pain. My head hurt, like nails were scraping the inside of my skull.
But very few of us can articulate the pain. We’ve been suffering for so long that our pain receptors have short-circuited. In fact, we cause ourselves physical pain, through cutting, tattoos, piercings, and other methods (I like to rip out hang nails), to distract ourselves from the ever-present pain of being awake.
Into each life a little rain must fall. People with bipolar II understand this. We’re compassionate because we understand pain. We’re kind and empathetic to another’s distress.
But we don’t get April showers. We live with monsoons, hurricanes, and sometimes tsunamis of agony.
A fucking tsunami. The kind that devours everything in its path. Many of us suffer alone. Some, like myself, go to the hospital but doctors can’t find what is hurting us. They don’t have the tools to measure what hurts, or the knowledge.
There are moments of surcease. We’re upbeat, happy, and full of energy. It’s called a hypomania and it’s like the sun breaking through the clouds after a storm.
This is a state of joy that is transcendental. You are one with the universe. You can taste colors and sound, almost as if your body has flooded you with a googolplex of endorphins. It is an all-natural acid trip.
But is it worth the ensuing pain? No.
The pain is torture. You cry because you hurt, if you cry at all. You drag through your days and act as if nothing is wrong. No one sees what you endure. No one knows that you’re dying inside. You deliver an Oscar-worthy performance despite the illness.
But there is no such thing as “mental” illness. It’s physical. If it was a “mental” illness, medication would not work at all. But our society has stigmatized those who suffer, and we remain silent. Not for our own sake, but for the sake of our family and friends. We want to spare them the shame.
Until it becomes too much to bear. The pain, the suffering, the crushing loneliness all contribute to the eventual, and often unsuccessful, attempt to take one’s own life. We only hear about the successful suicides. The “sudden” suicides.
©2018. I.O. Kirkwood. All rights reserved for text. Image may be subject to copyright.
April 27, 2018
Godsmack has always been the one artist that voiced the feelings that I locked away beneath a smiling façade. As the band grew, my appreciation for their work grew.
I called it “canned” Godsmack. I demanded something more, something better, than revisiting a past that no longer held relevance. I wanted the grrrr and the soul. I wanted the contained release of fury tempered by experience.
Every good composer has a formula and it’s one that works. It gives a frame work, but it isn’t an excuse to stick to the tried and trope.
I admit, I avoided listening to the new album, When Legends Rise. Disappointment feels the same as heart break and I don’t have enough heart left to afford it.
But Godsmack delivered this time around.
Is it gritty? To a degree that it blends the old with the new and drops bombs of nostalgia (bitches). There’s still a few growls, riffs, and groovy rhythms left in the ol’ fellers.
Is it pop? Eh, for those snobs who act like Godsmack is the Yanni of the hard rock/heavy metal genre, maybe (may you rot in your self-importance along with your testosterone-poisoned idiocy).
Was it meant to appeal to a wider audience? Yes.
Was it manufactured or “canned?” I’ll give that a no.
“When Legends Rise,” is a perfect front-load song. It felt like a nod to power metal, rather than an attempt to be heavy. There is an epic quality to the lyrics and the cleanness of Erna’s vocals showcases the range and depth of his voice.
Of course, there’s “Bulletproof,” another pleasing front-load that was issued as the first single with an interesting video accompaniment. I’m still trying to figure out if Pasquale’s leisure suit was ashes of lime green or ashes of goldenrod in color, but I digress.
Once we get past the hit-makers, things get interesting. You can see the formula. Every good composer has a formula and it’s one that works. It gives a frame work, but it isn’t an excuse to stick to the tried and trope.
Treading a path of authenticity is an evolution. Sometimes it devolves into mimicry and many times it opens a doorway into unexpected creativity and fulfillment.
Frameworks give the freedom to experiment, and what I really enjoyed about the remainder of the songs were the sudden changes, unexpected changes, in the melodies, especially demonstrated by Rombola’s guitar.
I enjoyed the addition of hand drums without going overboard. I enjoyed how the children’s choir kicked off the song “Unforgettable.” A ballad in “Under Your Scars,” no less? (And I loved it??) These risks may be calculated but still frightening as hell if you wrestle with the continuity of a career.
I’m a lyrics person. I want to know every word that is sung. I want to know what it means, and while familiar themes of Erna’s past efforts are present, they are coupled with new imagery that is deeper and burns a hell of a lot more because no one shakes mortality or loneliness.
I think the only song that didn’t quite fit the album was “Eye of the Storm.” It felt like an add-on, and that always bothers me. Perhaps a few more listens will warm me up, but I am very pleased with the album overall and glad I spent my cash on a preorder.
Treading a path of authenticity is an evolution. Sometimes it devolves into mimicry and many times it opens a doorway into unexpected creativity and fulfillment. If you’re in a group and they’re on board, ready to deliver solid musicianship, then you’ve got a platform for artistic integrity.
©2018. I.O. Kirkwood. All rights reserved for text. Images may be subject to copyright.
She drank every blade of flame;
Gazed deep into his Dante eyes
Pressed soft lips to the embers
of his pain.
A taste of cool rain and soft,
evening skies. A tender sigh.
Eyes the depth of ancient groves;
Her dew-drenched touch
trailed mist across his burning skin.
©2018. I.O. Kirkwood. All rights reserved for text. Image may be subject to copyright.
I think most Americans who look for the perfect partner are crazier than loons. Perfection at this level of manifestation, at any level of manifestation, is an unobtainable ideal. I’m single for a very good reason.
First, I define a romantic relationship as two people who have agreed to spend time and effort on creating a home together. It should be a nourishing experience and all relationships are borne of these needs between people. Including the dynamic between a narcissist and an empath.
We all want a place to call home, but it isn’t the four walls of a domicile that make a home. What makes a home is people: family, friends, and for many, that one special partner. That person upon which many hopes, and dreams, are pinned. Unrealistic expectations.
Our relationships aren’t working. Plain and simple.
Second, my definition of partner is the person with whom you’ve made this contractual agreement. Much of this agreement is based on assumptions and implicit beliefs. Which is why everyone is confused.
Every interaction is a transaction with the ultimate goal to meet the needs of the persons involved. We can also apply this to poly relationships, which require an explicit agreement between all parties to succeed.
Unrealistic expectations are the demise of any relationship. A refusal to discuss implicit beliefs about relationships sets the stage for this demise and a roller coaster of messy heartbreak. Some people will carry on beyond this phase and come to an agreement, a commitment to work on something so imperfect and challenging.
Our relationships aren’t working. Plain and simple.
Divorce is almost inevitable for a married couple in the United States. The psychologists would have us believe that only fifty percent of marriages end in divorce. They gloss over the constraints of the trials, which measures the three years between marriage and divorce. Another constraint is the observation of only heterosexual marriages.
But the divorce rate is much higher if you add in four to twelve more years. That would be a more accurate measurement, but it would also compromise the data because the sample needed is too large.
Not including the generations in which divorce was a scandal, I’d estimate the divorce rate at ninety-five percent of American marriages. This does not include all the myriad forms that a relationship can take. It only points to the demise of traditional marriage and the finagling of numbers to spin a much brighter scenario. This is not a tested figure so don’t quote me without that caveat.
Now the question becomes, how does a healthy relationship work?
Consent is about fifty percent of a healthy relationship. Consent is the agreement between two people that a transaction specific to romantic relationships can occur. This is not a blanket agreement. It doesn’t apply unconditionally because your partner agreed to having sex one time. Consent is an ongoing activity.
You are the only person you cannot escape… You will die alone, and this will be an experience you cannot share with anyone else.
Making a home together requires consent between partners for more than just sex. It is about dishes and who cleans the toilet. It is about boundaries and common interests. It is about sex and emotions, too but the days and nights can’t be filled with non-stop fucking. Even men will plead a headache if a woman’s sex drive exceeds theirs. Been there, done that.
The other fifty percent of relationships starts with you. I don’t know how many times I’ve said this in previous posts, but I’ll repeat myself:
You come into the world as a being separate from everyone else. You are alone in the birth process and you are alone in the experience of your first breath. You are the only person you cannot escape. You are the only person who goes to bed with you every night.
You will die alone, and this will be an experience you cannot share with anyone else. Very few people appreciate this inevitability.
Once you hit a certain age, you’re on your own… There is only you.
I watched my mother die bit-by-bit and I couldn’t share those moments with her. She said nothing about how she felt or what she faced. No one else could feel her pain. She did the one thing that scared her most: she died alone and in those final moments, she seemed relieved to let go.
We’re alone and for many, this is a situation that cannot be borne. And the only way to begin a healthy relationship with another is to embrace yourself. Develop a beautiful relationship with yourself. Take responsibility for yourself, for what you think, feel and do.
Embrace your imperfections. Love yourself as you are. Love yourself as you were. Love yourself as you will be. How can loneliness drive you into a relationship if you are your own best friend?
Raise yourself from a child to an adult because no one else can do this for you. Once you hit a certain age, you’re on your own. You can’t blame another for your trials and tribulations. There is only you.
Once you do this, you can love another imperfect human and embrace the totality of them, even if you can’t understand the whole kit-and-kaboodle. Hopefully, you’ll find another human ready to embark on this journey with you.
©2018 I.O. Kirkwood. All rights reserved for text. Image may be subject to copyright.
This is a terrible topic to touch, but I will explain my understanding of what privilege is and what it is not.
It isn’t that rich, attractive, light-skinned, Christian men are too “clueless” or not “intelligent” enough to understand the concept of privilege. But the way the media has twisted it, privilege has become a buzzword that ignites the indignation of the very people ensconced at the top of the hierarchy.
Privilege is not a moral failing and it certainly isn’t exclusive to Caucasian men. The wealthy have privilege over the poor. Light-skinned people have privilege over dark-skinned people. Men have privilege over women in almost every country in this world. The righteous have privilege over the morally deficient. The beautiful, whatever society deems attractive at the time, have privilege over the plain.
Privilege is a social construct. It is conferred to and received by those named deserving of such treatment. If the practice goes on long enough, say for centuries, the privilege given becomes entitlement.
Entitlement in this context denotes any treatment that one has come to expect. Expectations are assumptions and to assume makes an “ass” our of “u” and “me.”
If you assume someone will be a certain way, if society demands that a woman behave a certain way, that is the point of reference from which you operate. Doesn’t matter if it’s true or not.
When I use the word privilege, it is not to chastise an individual. I only want to make the individual conscious of the “super-power” possessed. How you use this super-power determines the person you are, not the actual treatment you receive.
Society’s behavior toward a “beautiful” person is markedly different from that of the “plain” person. After meeting a few of these genetic-jackpot-creatures, and I think a majority of us would agree, you discover that they are vain, demanding, and rely almost exclusively on their appearance to command admiration and what they feel is theirs by right.
Fat-shaming is another example. Since slenderness is a societally desirable state of being, everything to do with fashion, to do with body image, how one eats, and even one’s perceived state of health is assumed by society.
Here is a totem pole of privilege in America:
• Color of skin
• Gender identification
• Religious affiliations
Others have different opinions as to the order, but from observation and study, this is my statement of the hierarchy and only in America and only by the majority of Americans. For those rare birds who refuse to adopt these societal norms and struggle daily to challenge their assumptions, I salute you.
The distinctions above represent our subconscious assumptions. To the individual with privilege, the treatment received from others is equivalent to a fish swimming in an ocean. Immersed in the water, acknowledgement of the sky and earth exist is not required or desired. Arguments would ensue should a dolphin come along and describe the sky.
This is why America is in turmoil over so many issues. Like the teenager our country is, compared to other countries in the world, we wish to prove that we are right in our assumptions. Belligerence is a normal side-effect of having assumptions challenged. Hopefully, recent setbacks will mature the American perspective and the election of the current Administration is the last gasp of the beached fish of our country’s sense of entitlement. My hope is endless.
For those who rest at the pyramid’s point, you have a responsibility to acknowledge your good fortune and use it for the betterment of those who have, by no fault of their own, been relegated to a supporting level of the pinnacle. Failing to do so will create a chaos that grows exponentially as the established order attempts to keep the “lid on the boiling pot.”
When a class of individuals loses sight of the fact that their privilege rests on the backs of the others who have helped them to rise to such heights, resentment simmers beneath and at some point, the pyramid will erupt like a volcano.
The eruption could be Pompeii or it could be *** in proportion. This pattern has been witnessed over the course of human history, reflected in the cycles of the Earth, and also experienced on the personal level many times over.
Must change be so violent? If an abuse is named in the current order of assumptions, wouldn’t it be easier to integrate the awareness with deliberate and mindful steps that are implemented with kindness and respect? And for those who have named these abuses, wouldn’t it be prudent to start with a respectful and informative approach rather than accusations that, while valid, would alienate the participation of those who have the power to initiate change?
In theory, yes, that would be marvelous and the ideas of mindfulness and deliberation are worthy of consideration and constructive discussion.
I am not promoting a revolution of any sort because I am not interested in holding power over others. I have the privilege to be in a place where I can make that decision for myself. Others are not so lucky, but I will not use my privilege as a weapon against others.
I will harness my privilege so that I’m not an asshole to the waiter or ignoring the suffering of others. I will use my privilege to help others become.
Fury is what I feel when I’m helpless. Plus fear is what I feel when my amygdala kicks in with the fight-or-flight reaction (FFR) and I can’t make it stop. Equals General Anxiety Disorder.
Looks pretty simple, but it isn’t. If I broke into rages instead of a panic attack, then my fury would be diagnosed and treated. The anxiety expressed in those rages would not be addressed. If I have panic attacks instead, because I’ve been victimized one too many times, only the anxiety would be treated.
Therapist: What are you afraid of?
Me: I don’t know. I’m safe, there is nothing to fear.
T: Then why do you think you have panic attacks?
M: Because that was the only way I could express my fury.
It leaked out of me 24/7. How do you treat that kind of fury? The helpless fury that must find an outlet or I’ll explode.
Most therapists are at a loss of how to treat fury-induced anxiety. They don’t consider the other emotions that are tightly woven into the panic response.
Especially for women. Women cry when they are frustrated and feel helpless. This feeds the angry fire.
I’ve learned to embrace my fury. I treat her like a long, lost child who has grown to a strong, even vicious woman. Anger is so destructive when it isn’t given a proper outlet.
For those of you with imagination, anthropomorphize the fury. What does the fury look like? What gender? What species? Build up this image in your mind.
When you know what your fury looks like, embrace it. Tell it you love it and that it is a part of the collective of you. You might have to do this a number of times before Fury trusts you enough to listen.
Once the Fury relaxes enough to have a conversation, you can hit these bullet points:
• I love you as a natural part of who I am as a person.
• I’ve neglected you and I’m sorry for that.
• I understand why you have sabotaged my efforts in the past.
• To show you how sorry I am, I’m asking you to turn your attention to what hinders us.
• Your destructive nature is necessary to sift the wheat from the chaff.
• Let us work together as a team to overcome any obstacles that come our way.
You may have to have this conversation with Fury a few times before it takes, but it will take. Fury will settle into your unconscious mind, where it has always resided, but now Fury has a new directive and will fulfill your request with a focus that is monumental in proportion.
After I did this, my whole life changed. The decisions I made when Fury was not acknowledged were cut and burned. Some of those decisions were salted as well. Fury doesn’t play.
Another role Fury can take is as a defender of the child you were, the child you must raise. This is anxiety. This is helplessness. Have Fury protect and care for this child. Fury was given to us for this purpose.
Many call Fury the Shadow, but this is only true if you deny its existence. Otherwise, it becomes a tool of the heart and mind. You’ll make better decisions. Toxic people will shed from your life. This will be true even if you have a mental illness. I think one of the reasons I survived so long with the illness was because I acknowledged all the icky parts of myself. Just know that Fury is the biggest “shadow” of them all and must be addressed first.
I am not a licensed therapist. I make no claims to having any experience other than my own. If the above practice resonates with you, you’ll have success. If it doesn’t I recommend that you not continue the matter and seek professional help.
Either way, if you are seeing a therapist, discuss the ramifications of a guided meditation. Remember that you are paying the therapist for their expertise and that you are the boss. You are the owner of all the feelings inside of you. If your therapist isn’t open to working with you on anger issues or just recommends prescriptions to the psychiatrist to deal with the anxiety, it’s time to find a new therapist.
Take charge of your journey to wellness. You are mighty, not helpless. Let your Fury become your guardian. Fury will tell you when something isn’t right. Fury will protect you.
©2018. I.O. Kirkwood. All rights reserved for text only. Image may be subject to copyright.