Holy stringofexpletives, it’s been a long six months or so since the last time I wrote. It may or may not have been apparent, but I was going through a REALLY rough patch. I came back from two months in Mexico with about four different health problems that were all feeding off each other in my intestinal tract. No, it was not the usual Montezuma’s Revenge that we all know and roll our eyes at and get over quickly; I was really sick for MONTHS.
And here comes admission number one: I would much rather not tell you how sick I am. I would much rather you had no idea what I am going through. I would very much prefer that you think I am an invincible super hero.
I take this to an extreme that is unhealthy. For instance, my diet was much restricted while I was sick, in an attempt to starve the organisms in my system to death. Despite the fact that my health depended on it, I didn’t want to tell anyone that I couldn’t eat, well, pretty much anything. I also couldn’t drink alcohol, which was fine with me, but I didn’t want to make a situation awkward by NOT drinking when that was obviously what everyone was EXPECTED to do. (You know, at breakfast meetings and such.)
When I type this out loud (is that even a thing?) you can see how ridiculous is seems. And yet, I was so caught up in not inconveniencing everyone else that I forgot that my primary aim is actually to take care of myself. Selfish, I know, but it turns out being selfish is something I’m really bad at, at least in this case.
I’m still not 100 percent better, but it turns out I’ve NEVER been 100 percent. Why? Because 100 percent is what I consider other people to be: people who can eat regular food and exercise as much as or however they’d like and don’t need to sleep as much as I do, and don’t get sick at the drop of a hat. Turns out, I’ve been trying to make myself into someone ELSE’s 100 percent instead of trying to figure out what mine is. I’m not sure I’ll ever completely figure it out, but here’s what I’ve discovered about 100 Percent Morgan:
I need more time to myself than other people.
I cannot actually recharge my batteries if others are present. It doesn’t matter what we’re doing.
I cannot eat cow dairy on a regular basis, or even semi-often.
I love beer. I shouldn’t drink it.
If I had to give up alcohol completely, I wouldn’t miss it, until I was in a social situation where I thought I should be drinking to make everyone else feel comfortable.
I cry when I feel anything strongly: fear, pain, or happiness.
Writing is essential to my happiness. It doesn’t matter what I’m writing, just that I AM writing.
I’m really bad at asking for help when I need it, especially if it’s emotional help or support.
I need to take the time to sit under the stars far more often than I actually do.
I need to travel – alone – to remember how much I am in love with life.
I often travel to distract myself from painful personal revelations.
I need to be outside, a lot. I prefer to enjoy nature somewhere that I can’t see much proof of civilization.
My body oftentimes lets me know I’m on the wrong track before my mind knows it. I need to get better at listening.
I would like to say that this is the new beginning of a regular blogging experience. I would like to say that I’m going to want to write to you, invisible audience, in the hopes that what I’m experiencing is something you would enjoy reading about, or at least relate to. I would like to say that, but the truth is that I’m tired of doing things on a regular basis simply because I’m supposed to. So, let’s just say for now that I am happy to have something to say to you again, and I hope to feel inspired to keep up the conversation.
Love and revelatory kisses
Morgan
