Back in the Saddle Again

Kylie Evans
Jul 30, 2017 · 8 min read

“Write about what you know.” That’s what everyone says — in the movies, and in real life, whatever that is.

What I know is struggle. Sure, I know joy, happiness, and love, but not in the way I want to know them. I don’t want to know struggle as well as I do. Naturally, I feel ashamed to be so familiar with it. After all, it’s how I was raised.

I’m very good at blaming others for my pain and misery. Nothing is ever my fault, probably due to the level of narcissism I was exposed to growing up.

Recently, I was in a very serious car accident and was left with a badly broken leg. The movies tell me I should have a renewed sense of life, a whole new perspective, which means all my problems should have disappeared by now. But they haven’t. I still carry anger. I still have yet to forgive. I still get off on beating myself up. It doesn’t seem like much has changed.

Or has it?

I don’t seem to care about some of the things I think I cared about before. I care less about what others think of me, but is that because of the accident? Or is that because I don’t get out much these days, on account of my bum leg and lack of transportation?

Even now, everything I’m saying feels… disingenuous some how. Like I’m not writing this for me. I’m writing this because I want to write, but don’t feel like I have anything to say. Even though that’s total bullshit. I have so much to say, but how much of what I want to say actually carries true meaning or insight?

Often times, my most profound thoughts come through in conversations with friends and loved ones. I’ll be typing out a deeply intellectual and insightful response to a friend or family member who’s struggling in their own ways and I’ll think, “Wow… That’s fucking genius. I should save this. I wonder if they’d be upset seeing these exact words in a book one day?”

So I know it’s there. When I allow it to be. But why don’t I allow it to be more often? And on my own?

What’s stopping me? Blocking me?

I think knowing that someone might be reading this plays a large part in what I say in my writing. Like it’s more important to me that you get something out of this than me getting what I need. That’s probably my biggest problem: Doing it for me, not you.

No offense, though. I’m sure you’re great, and very deserving of all the love and attention in the world. But I don’t even know you, so why the hell do I care what you get out of this?

Well, that’s just how I’ve always been. Always putting others’ feelings, needs, and thoughts before my own. Why? I’m sure I could come up with hundreds of reasons, but do any of them matter? Does anything really matter? Ever?

So deep. But, I’m getting ahead of myself, per usual.

You see, much like so many others, I don’t like work. I don’t enjoy putting a shit ton of effort into much of anything. I’m scared. Of failing, of disappointing, of not being enough, of feeling what I truly need to feel in order to find the answers I’ve been looking for my whole life.

BOOM. Brick wall. Trains of thought: gone.

Why? Did I strike a chord? Meh, yes and no. I haven’t said anything most of us don’t already know these days. With all this talk of meditation, yoga, mindfulness, consciousness, anxiety, depression, etc., most of us have some basic understanding about our feelings and what they truly mean. Or do we?

Most of us become so attached to our feelings, and our thoughts. Perhaps we become attached first to our thoughts, which then invoke certain feelings, to which we form even stronger attachments. When we’re sad we cling to the sadness. It becomes a part of who we are, and for many of us it becomes a part of who we are for so long that letting go of the sadness seems impossible. Like a toddler and his binky, we can’t imagine life without out, and so we hold on for dear life, believing that it’s the only thing keeping us alive.

Have you ever seen the movie Donnie Darko? It’s one of my all-time favorites, and not just because it’s got an amazing soundtrack, an all-star cast, and a demonic bunny, although those are probably the top three reasons I’ve seen it so many times.

There’s a character in the movie, played very well by Patrick Swayze, and he’s what you might call a motivational speaker. Or, at least, that’s probably what he would have been called in the 80’s, when this movie takes place. He’s a local icon who speaks publicly about how to succeed in life, based on a FEAR/LOVE spectrum.

In the movie, Patrick Swayze’s character (Jim Cunningham) shares his theory that all feelings lie somewhere on the FEAR/LOVE spectrum. For example, sadness and anger are two feelings that are rooted firmly on the FEAR side of the spectrum, while emotions like happiness are rooted in LOVE.

I believe this to be true. I believe that acts, thoughts and feelings of violence and jealousy stem from deep-seated fears, while acts, thoughts and feelings of kindness stem from love. And while I think I believe that it’s just that simple, it doesn’t always seem to feel that way.

I’m still scared. I know this because of the anger I feel when I look at my mother while she’s talking to someone. When I see the fear and insecurity in her eyes and body language, I become angry. On paper I know I only need to let go of this anger — no matter where it came from — in order to move on and truly be happy.

But why does it seem so difficult?

Well, once again, on paper I know it’s because I’ve become so accustomed to my anger (and sadness) that I don’t want to let it go. Letting it go means change, and change is hard. The fear has become a security blanket. It’s always been there, my entire life. Letting it go means letting myself go, doesn’t it?

Yes and no.

The sadness, the anger — the fear — isn’t me. It never was. So all I would really be letting go of is who I’ve always thought I was. Which makes me a little sad, since who I thought I was is the only “me” I’ve ever known myself to be. Without the fear, who am I?

That’s the $6 million question, isn’t it? That’s the question we all want the answer to. But why does the answer seem so difficult to find?

WELP. In my opinion and in my experience, I believe the reason finding (and loving) myself has been so difficult because of distraction. Or, rather, it’s because I’ve become so good at allowing myself to be distracted. Constantly.

When it comes right down to it — when I have the choice between silence and inner exploration and wine + Netflix — 9 out of 10 times I choose the ladder. I know now that it’s because that’s the easiest choice. Choosing to quiet my thoughts and numb my feelings with alcohol has always been an easy decision to make. Netflix just makes it more fun because I get to escape, as well. Maybe even make believe that my life isn’t actually my life — that it’s someone else’s. That my life is actually Kimmy Schmidt’s life. That my best friend is a sassy gay black man named Titus Andromedon and my therapist is a drunk Tina Fey. That I don’t actually care what anyone else thinks of what I’m wearing, and my biggest problem is forgiving Jon Hamm for keeping me locked up in his bunker for 15 years and forcing me to marry him. (Which, let’s be honest, doesn’t sound so bad, does it?!)

But, as always, my return to my perceived reality is inevitable, which is why binge-watching shows on Netflix (and the ever dreaded #showhole) became a thing. Not many of us are too thrilled about returning to “reality,” so we just watch episode after episode of Game of Thrones or Grace & Frankie, until we reach the end of the latest season. At which point we move on to the next show, excited to spend hours upon hours not actually living our lives.

It’s sad, isn’t it? Not always, but in general this phenomenon just seems… sad. It was only when I read a book called I Hope I Screw This Up by Kyle Cease that I realized that nothing we do — no distraction we choose — must always be sad, or wrong, or unhealthy. Sometimes Netflix feels light. Sometimes it feels heavy. Same with exercising, or meditating. Or writing.

We’ve become so good at making choices with our minds that we forget we have the option to choose with our hearts, and our souls. Our minds are so noisy that we can’t hear our spirits screaming for peace, for silence. How can we ever know who we are if we can’t hear our inner voices? If we don’t take the time to pay attention and listen?

Obviously, we can’t. And for so many of us, making a conscious effort to quiet our minds and explore our hearts is so difficult because it’s new and it takes diligent practice and extreme patience. After all, we’ve been conditioned to seek out the love and approval we need externally, ever sine we were born, and being alone in silence is sounds absolutely terrifying.

After breaking my leg in a horrific car accident, leaving me in such a condition that requires near constant supervision and car, I was left with little to no time alone. Not to mention the fact that, at least for the first two weeks, I was unable to even go to the bathroom by myself for fear of falling due to the pain meds I was taking. My sense of freedom and independence has temporarily gone missing, and I can’t even hear myself think, let alone notice how I’m feeling and what it means.

I cry alone at night, when I’m in bed. I’ve been avoiding the trauma I experienced during my car accident. I’m so strong, after all. I’m fine. Everything’s okay. Don’t worry about me.

But that doesn’t work for me anymore. I say (and think) those things because of my fear of vulnerability and my stubborn sense of pride. I can do it by myself. I don’t need anyone else. Even though I do.

I’m hoping that writing everyday will unlock something within me. I’m hoping this time in front of my laptop (and essentially away from my mother) will help me find the answers I need about who I am and what I want. I cannot allow these weeks of recovery to be a waste of my time. I refuse to spend it all in another world or state of distraction, as tempting and easy as that would be.

I must be diligent.
I must be honest.
I must be consistent.

Or else, why did this happen to me in the first place?

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