Ok.
I
give up.
I
know when I’m beaten.
I
get it, already.
No
Bikram since November.
One
solitary Baptiste class since then.
Every
time I think that I’ll be able to resume my practice, SOMETHING happens.
I
can’t get all my ducks in a row.
I
can’t get all the lights to turn green.
I
have almost completely returned to the person I was before discovering yoga in
general, and Bikram in particular.
I’m
smoking. Half a pack some days. I went five months and one day without. Then, I
picked them back up without batting an eye.
I
eat junk. Burgers, doughnuts, chips, junk upon junk upon crap. While I’m not
yet back to 285 lbs, I’m definitely getting closer. And closer.
I’m
not drinking too much soda (yet), but I mainline coffee… with lots of French
Vanilla creamer.
Sleep
brings no rest, no dreams, no energy. The ringing alarm clock is both blessing
and curse.
I
find it difficult to concentrate on anything. I try to read an article or a
book. I try to write. I used to think I really had something to give or share.
Now, I just don’t know.
I
kept telling myself that if I could just hang on, or if I just worked a little
harder or longer, things would get better. I would find a way back to that
place. I would walk back into that chamber and sweat and pull and stretch and
BREATHE. I would feel alive and healthy again. I would work toward that goal of
being the best possible me I could be.
Now?
I’m
irritable. Upset. Angry. Everything is suffering: my body, my work, my relationships,
my being. It’s as if I had never heard of yoga. There just doesn’t seem to be a
way to get back in the room from here. For now, there are just too many obstacles
to hurdle.
I
was never really a yogi in training, was I? I was just a “wannabe” yogi.
I
walked into work the other day, realized the futility of it all, and began to
cry. Not sniffle. Not weep. I cried. (Fortunately, since I get there earlier
than most, no one saw me.)
It
was just a passing fancy, this idea of me practicing yoga. A summer romance. A one act play.
I
had hopes for this week. I might, at least, get an introductory 10-class card
at Indigo. It will not happen – save for a miracle of some sort. I tried to
practice here at home, but it was laughable (plus I just can’t get a room that
warm without causing a problem). I can’t see getting back to Bikram anytime
soon either. I was always hopeful that this hiatus would be short and painless.
Now, I don’t know when, if ever, I’ll get back. To be honest, I'm beginning to think it will not happen.
Yoga
still fascinates – and scares – me. I still read lots of blogs. I still believe
in the power and beauty of yoga. My dream of going to training is still on my
bucket list. I see and read about people who are changing their lives with the
help of yoga -- and I want desperately to change mine. I am was a (small) part of an ever growing online community of yogis
trying to grow and share and make this planet just a little bit better.
I’m
frustrated.
I’m
tired.
I’m
sick of writing about NOT practicing.
I'm sick of being who I am.
I'm sick of having empty hopes for change.
I’ve
come undone.
" Every year is getting shorter never seem to find the time.
Plans that either come to naught or half a page of scribbled lines
Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way
The time is gone, the song is over,
Thought I'd something more to say."
Plans that either come to naught or half a page of scribbled lines
Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way
The time is gone, the song is over,
Thought I'd something more to say."
"Time" by Pink Floyd from Dark Side of the Moon
Peace.
