Can your spirit heal?
Like, actually heal? Invade its essence into your cellular activity?
I dunno, but let me tell you that if what I’ve made this year into is any indication…I look forward to my next round of blood work.
I’m leaving again this weekend for something I never contemplated for the last…oh…just over a decade:
A women’s retreat.
Camping, hooplah (‘cuz a bunch of women know how to RAWK a hooplah!) and women…inviting oneself to reflect inward upon various things known only to our select selves.
And I’m scared stupid.
“But you go to scrapbooking retreats all the time.”
Yes. I do. Where I can choose to say as little or as much as I’d like. Where I can escape into a wee ‘lil room all by my lonesome or get lost in all things shiny and BLING.
Where I don’t have to address years and a world of hurt at the hands of women who meant something to me.
I verily believe that a whole shitload of my physical issues are really manifestations of stress and inner garbage bags overflowing with the crap of all that I’ve done, witnessed, endured or simply ignored.
I’ve overcome a lot with respect to men. I value, love and appreciate all the men in my life (family and most especially my male friends) because they’re the kinds of men I would hope my sons would look to for inspirations and ideas. They’ve shown me that what I thought would be a novel of my thoughts on men would really amount to a classified ad on page 32 at the bottom left.
I’ve not overcome much with respect to women. I guess my hope in sharing such a personal plight is 1) to shed light on why I’m so love-ably bat-shit crazy and 2) the importance of owning your shit, dealing with and managing internal triggers and/or stressors.
Not having had a lot of “stable” friends, having been a military brat…the most wonderful, beautiful friend I think I’ve ever had did something I didn’t think was physically, meaningfully, possible:
When I was expecting my second son…she told my son’s father that the baby wasn’t his.
[enter DNA testing, counselling and cancelling our wedding the day my wedding dress came in, stage front and fucking centre] *my son is, most assuredly, his…for the record
Well. I sort of got really fucked up by that. And by “sort of”…I mean I withdrew from any and all social interactions for a period of 8 years.
So, I’m…uh…really quite eloquent and articulate when writing, but I find myself still practising social skills in order to sustain some very wonderful friendships I’ve managed to establish over the last few years.
Meaning: I can be one socially awkward person. Trying to say a funny thing but it comes out plain silly. Trying to interject a comment to make it known that I share the same thought/feeling/event when it’s really not about me at all and perhaps I should practise listening instead.
Go, Go SociallyAwkwardSpazzyAss is gettin’ her camp on with people I do, and most assuredly do not, know.
More specifically…with women I do, and most assuredly do not, know.
Clicking “Join” was the first step.
Getting all packed up was the second (albeit quite fun) step.
Making my I’ve-earned-this-ass get into the car tomorrow morning will take the will of the gods, I’m certain.
I cannot wait to “Feel the Heal.” This year’s theme at the Red Spiral Women’s Retreat is all about releasing your inner child. This makes it even more “WAAAAAAAAA” (light above head kind’o’thing) as the very nature of this week’s Soul Restoration lesson is on pondering the girls we once were, and…well…all the healing that’s needed from any less-than-stellar place in time that might have been as we grew into women…devalued beliefs, lies of esteem, etc…
Certainly there will be fun.
Certainly there will be healing and giggling and gut-busting laughs.
Certainly there will sure as shit be COLOUR!!
Own your shit.