I opened my eyes with energy, wove through my quaint studio with energy, and strolled to my first counselling session in months with energy. My mind and vision both felt bright and clear. The newborn air snapped against my exposed ankles and snuck through the knots of my sweater, a coy breeze. Yesterday, I quipped to my friend that the sunny autumnal morning was obscenely perfect, just like how I envisioned shots from a corny Hallmark movie might be. This morning was just as picturesque.
I hastily caught my counsellor up with my life since early July and finished with, “All this to say, this might be the last time I see you because I’ve been doing well!” Of course, I ended up booking another appointment for January time just in case. With my recent forays into an inspired state of mind, I don’t want to let it get away from me and plan to do my best to wrangle it closely. I am not predicting my own downfall, but I know nurturing this state isn’t a tidy process and is also without an end. The essence of my character is synonymous to clumsiness, after all.
I’m also continuing to learn the importance of boundaries. It sounds annoyingly clinical but throughout my counselling sessions, it has become obvious that I’ve never set space for myself in the ways that I need most. Time is invaluable and my emotional capacity needs to be honoured. So often I’ve dropped my own plans at the hat for others, it has been at the expense of my overall wellbeing which bleeds into my own dreams and desires. Such is the messiness of life but where do you draw the line? Defining that line has been especially crucial since I’m only beginning to put my life together and nothing has been established yet. If I give out all my minutes to everyone else, I will never be able to forge these pieces of myself together. It feels natural to write “back together” but I’ve never had myself altogether to begin with. I’ve lacked a sure sense of self, but I think that I’m starting to hone one as I focus more inwardly.
After my therapy session, I make my way to my usual coffee shop to journal. The owner remarks, “I’ve known you for years, and before there was the old Negroni Slut. In between, you’ve been changed a little, like you’re sometimes sad, but lately I feel like you’re becoming more like the old Negroni Slut again.” Gladly, he didn’t call me Negroni Slut. He doesn’t know who that is. It’s becoming apparent that these internal changes are manifesting externally, too. There is a person who is coming back to roost in this flesh case. Less and less, do I feel like a passenger in a haphazardly driven vehicle and more and more, do I feel like the driver.
The brief running had a break — I overdid each session by twenty minutes more than I should’ve run and suffered from some overcompensating muscles according to the RMT I saw over a week ago. I was a touch overzealous. Now I’m four runs back into it with his advice. Each run is agony; as it turns out after a visit to the walk-in clinic, my breath is shorter than it should be. My unfit body is also adjusting to high-intensity exercise. Yet I manage to talk myself into every run. The brutality of it only taunts me more and ignites a competitive streak with myself. There is complete exhaustion in the moment and in the just after, but in the afternoon, I am wide awake and strong.
I’ve been easy on myself since I returned to my old job, but I’ve decided next week, I’m going to pour myself back into sketching and design. I wasn’t ever sure if that ambition would return but as I take care of my mind and body, a drive has washed over me. For the first time in years, I can say that I am content. I’ve been impenetrable to the cold, darkness and rain, happy to run in it, even. Gone are the flighty bits of manic passion and descents into depression, but a transition into stability. It feels premature to say, but I may have found a way forward.
It’s introverted autumn and I’m leaning into her.