1. I was riding the bus home (of course?). The second leg of the ultra-annoying-because-it's-cold-and-two-buses-early-morning-Tuesday-yoga commute.
2. I felt rather centered.
3. Plus, I'd been in terrible pain all yesterday evening and this morning. We did some serious shoulder stretching that actually relieved it.
4. As we lurched along, I reflected on my progress of late and thought I've been doing pretty good. I have been SLOWLY desensitizing myself to the World of People.
5. In order to get better, I have been doing these things, in order: therapy, meeting friends, poetry stuff, and yoga. Every week. And it's still challenging to get most of them to happen --everything except meeting friends.
6. But I'm starting to feel good because it's less challenging now. Thought I'm frustrated with the crawling pace, I'm also starting to be more okay with that too.
7. So I'm contemplating these thoughts, and I go to get off the bus.
8. As I'm walking up the aisle, I let go of a pole too soon, the driver slams on the brakes, I severely unbalance and run into a crowd of old people waiting to get off at the front.
9. I could feel myself fall forward, try to stop myself, know I'm going to hit them. I'm helpless in my momentum.
10. I hit them.
11. I rain a hail of apologies on them. Not just like sorry but SorrySorrySorrySorrySorry!
12. This old man turns to me and gives me the look of death. Like, "you're nothing." Like, "I curse you and your future generations." And then slowly looks away.
13. The bus doors open. They get off and proceed to the intersection.
14. I stay farther up the street and have a panic attack.
15. Finally I make my way to my apartment, barely able to keep it together.
16. During my, um, surrendering process, this thought occurred to me: what would it be like for me to be able to forgive myself? Especially for stupid shit. Stuff I can't help. Stuff that's an accident.
17. I monitor my every move. I'm choreographing all the time. I rarely stop being self conscious.
18. Monitoring and choreographing is a life-long trait. That is not a Jill-had-a-setback-after-her-mom thing. The self-loathing I feel when I slip up is also perpetual. Post-mom-suicide, the amplitude is higher.
19. But, you know, what if it weren't? What if I could somehow stop hating myself so viciously? [I can't believe I'm blogging this to the entire goddamn internet. Well, theoretically.]
20. I see no concrete way forward to this goal. It's like saying I'm going to build a rocket from recycled cereal boxes and shoot myself to the moon.