I went back to yoga this week.
It’s been YEARS since I really maintained a serious and steady yoga practice. But I started one up last time because I was gearing up for a long brain-depression-winter and, fuck, it actually really helped, so here we are again.
Last time… it was the morning after my last time playing Rosalind in As You Like It and I knew I wasn’t going to feel okay. So, I walked nearly two miles to this yoga studio (back when I walked nearly two miles everywhere) and I got my ass thoroughly kicked and then I kept walking and saw The Force Awakens for the fifth time.
This was in the before times, I guess.
I didn’t know yet that things could hurt worse than knowing I’d never get to play Rosalind again.
I don’t always know who I am anymore. I was on a path (I think?) and I careened off a cliff at the last fucking second and I think I’ve maybe just been lying on a pile of jagged rocks for the past year and a half, too afraid to look too closely at my injuries.
I’m quitting jobs, starting new ones, I’m either not sleeping well at all or I’m sleeping way too much. I don’t really want to be awake, is the thing. I haven’t really been able to write lately, it makes me too sad. The voice in my head is a constant monologue of all the things I fucked up, all the sins I’ll never be forgiven for.
So, I went back to yoga.
I am heavier now and I try not to let that bother me. I try not to be too keenly and painfully aware of where my stomach sits atop my thighs when I grind my knees down into Chair Pose. I do my best not to scream and hurl my water bottle out a window when I can’t manage a Chaturanga anymore.
I have lost those skills, I have lost that strength.
But I like when the instructor says nice things to us and puts a cool lavender towel on our heads at the end of class, so I went back to fucking yoga.
And I don’t know. I feel mostly angry as I type this? It is really awful to feel like a failure for so long, to wake up every day and consider the new ways in which I won’t live up to my potential. And, sorry, these feelings don’t lit a fucking fire under me. I’m tired and I want to hide under my bed and I want to claw my own eyes out.
I’m so angry.
But, for an hour today, I suppose, I’ll breathe and think about anything other than vibrating out of my own stupid skin.
(Plus, I spent a lot of money on a nicer mat, so I guess this is happening.)
Sometimes I think I just don’t want to be in my room anymore. Yoga’s somewhere to go.
So, I’m going back today.
I’m sorry. I love you.