It was in Santa Barbara. Thirteen years ago, yet I remember it as though it happened last night.
It was dark. I sat at the terrace watching city lights below me twinkling in the inky southern darkness, looking at oil rigs studding the dark ocean, lit up festively like so many christmas trees. I was wrapped in a blanket, it was cold that night. I thought about myself.
I was not happy with myself on that night, thirteen years ago. The exact story of my misery escapes me now, but it hardly matters. I was not happy, I was not very present, in fact I only begun my journey to myself. Traumas, fears, insecurities, judgements, needs and wants tore at me with stiff, impassive, impatient fingers, yanking me this way and that. I was helpless in their grasp.
I thought about this that night. I thought about those fears and pains and compulsions. I thought about the darkness, the ugliness, the destructive intensity and realized suddenly that this is me. All those dirty secrets I keep hidden out of my sight — it is all me. The trauma, the pain, the craziness. All me.
It felt good. Surprisingly enough.
I still remember this feeling as though it happen last night, though it was thirteen years ago.
I felt heavy, grounded, rounded. I felt rooted. I gained mass, weight. I gained presence. I became complete.
I was no longer a disembodied goodness, no more an abstract idea of a perfect person I was supposed to be, wished to be, was going to be, yearned to be. Pretended to be.
I became real.
