Coral’s Healing Room at 505-269-9242 I rise early. I go to bed early. If you need me, I will make myself available to you.

Beginning to find and honor my own honor beat…

Good morning everyone! I hope you rested well and that your morning is off to a good start. I am really glad you are here. I had no idea what this blogging experience would be like or where it would take me.  I committed to blogging every day for 365 days, and I’ve been doing just that since December 2017. Setting up my blog I decided to make it really easy to find me, and really easy not to find me. If you’re looking for Coral, here I am and welcome. If you’re looking to avoid Coral, here I am andyou can just keep on going. Easy…right? I figure so…and that way everyone can find me who wants or needs to do so. I want to be available. I really, really do.

For years, I had unlisted and blocked numbers. I was ambiguous about where I lived. I wanted to be anonymous and to not be easily found. I never really thought about why that was, only that it was. I cannot really describe how liberating it feels to just be available, however that looks. Maybe it was paranoia in my addiction, the failed relationships…the jobs I left..friends who were not really friends at all…possibly a combination of all of it. Now, I give my phone number and address freely to whomever needs or wants it. I have no attachment to who finds me and who avoids me, although I won’t lie…I do sometimes wonder, who is out there looking me up. Strange…it’s like it really doesn’t matter and it never really did…at the same time it does matter and it always has mattered to me, at least on some level.

Do any of you have someone you wish you could reach out to? Why don’t you? I mean, why not make that call? Why not send that letter? Why not buy those flowers and have them delivered? Why don’t we reach? I guess I kind of want to talk about that today…what keeps us from reaching? For me, I really resonate with the twelve steps and so when making amends in step 9, I am constantly reminded that we do not make amends and definitely not in person amends when we could harm ourselves or others. We don’t offload our shit and call that amending. We don’t place others in harms way, just to relieve ourselves of the shit piled on top of us. Amends are often difficult and jagged mirrors and should be handled with caution. I know it won’t be a shock, in my amends, I write letters, poetry…send music…and sometimes, all I send, all that is appropriate to send, is all of my love. We must do better when we know better. We learn from our transgressions, don’t we? Being sorry and making amends is as much about changed behavior as it is about being sorry. If you’re truly sorry, enough to make amends for it, you must also be mindful and do better. The best apology for any of us, ever, is changed behavior. We don’t say we are sorry, just to go and do the same hurtful things over again, do we?

What about when our amends are not received well at all? This has happened to me only once and I can’t lie, it fucking hurt me…in fact, it still hurts me. I’ve not mastered the four agreements just yet and I still take things personally. I must have sent it too soon, without the right words…however it happened though, I did not feel better after attempting to convey my heart and my apologies for my failures and shortcomings. Receiving the response I received for a pour my heart out attempt at being very sorry, was like a fucking machete ripping through my very soul. I wanted to snatch my letter right back out of the space that it entered and to act as though I didn’t send it, until I could get it right. I was embarrassed and ashamed and hurt on so many levels. The words that came back were sharp and jagged and blaming and unforgiving and mean as hell…and all intentioned to hurt me, and they achieved that goal…those words and all of that blame and hate, they pierced me like tiny  little daggers assaulting my heart and soul. I kept that letter for a while, almost as though to punish myself for being inforgiven and unforgivable. I read it and I hurt all over again, just like I fucking deserved, right? Not right. Not fucking right at all, and so one day, when I pulled it up to remind me of what a fucking piece of shit I am, I deleted it. I said, no more. I had to accept that the response I got said far more about the other person than it could ever say about me. I had to forgive myself anyway, for not knowing what I didn’t know before I knew it and for not being more than I was before I started to grow into who I’m becoming. I still sit with the hurt of this failed relationship sometimes, as this relationship, as fucked up as it may have been, was a relationship that I put my whole self, my whole life and my entire being into. Years later and it still stings me sometimes, being so unforgiven and so hated by someone whom I love so much and forgave wholeheartedly. How do we love ourselves through this? When someone told us and anyone else who would listen, what a piece of shit loser we are, how do we stop hearing it? How do we silence the voices of those who do not want us to be well? How do we cease to concern ourselves with the blame cast upon us for all transgressions, and not just our own. Truthfully, for the longest time, I didn’t…and instead I picked all of that up and carried it on my back with all of my shit, because after all, it was all my fucking fault in the first place, wasn’t it? It was…all of it, until last week, in the middle of a colossal meltdown…all of it was my fault, every last bit of it. I have been spinning off of my axis in all of this pain, and I have been struggling with not having my Mom and I have been fucking inconsolable…truly…catatonic and completely inconsolable. In one of these episodes, where the world literally begins to close down on top of me and crush me…enter, full blown PTSD…my Mom is dead and I am fucking dying…my family left me and the world I knew just disappeared into thin air, I paused, with tears flowing down my cheeks and popping out my eyes, hyperventilating and so fucking destroyed, I looked up at Tamara and I said this…”I just realized that she threw me away, discarded me like trash, packed all of my things in a fucking box, unbeknownst to me, while sharing the evening drinking with friends…everyone left and we were smoking in the garage and she said I’m going to bed, you’re okay to go home, right? Actually, I had thought I was going to bed with her, like I had for months before. Constant nagging on her part that I never drink and drive because such an accident took her brother…no drinking, no driving, except for tonight, you need to go home. Oh, and here’s a box with some of your things. I couldn’t breathe or see straight or cry or anything. I followed her to the bedroom, where she wanted nothing to do with me, and I laid down on her bed, fully clothed, to try to sober up a bit. After what felt like an eternity, I got up, I kissed her on the forehead and I let myself out for the very last time, of that house. I drove home drunk, because it was less risky than laying there, in that bed, next to someone who was already gone. The problem was that it wasn’t over for me and I was not gone. I hung on forever, until last week actually, to the illusion that I was loved so much, attached at the heart and soul, to someone who threw me the fuck away.”

I was crying so, so hard, so desperately looking at Tamara, searching her eyes with the tears streaming down her face, for something, anything at all, to tell me I wasn’t disposable…that I’m not a piece of trash and unworthy…and I got that. I got it finally, that this person, that I have loved with all of my heart and placed on a pedestal, since the moment I met her, simply did not love me back. Whatever she was to me, I clearly was not to her. The love that I invested and the time and the effort and the planning and the dreaming…I did that by myself. I was in this by myself. I fell in love with someone who was not available, who had already chosen someone else, and my world shattered when she stayed right where she had been, instead of coming with me. I got exactly what I deserved and I was laid flat the fuck out splattered on the floor, unable to be sorry enough. Last week, I told Tamara what really happened…how I was thrown out, with a box full of all of my things, drunk and broken into a million pieces, in the middle of the night, by the woman I loved more than anything in the world, as best as I could, in the fog I was living in.

Somehow, saying all of that out loud to the woman who loves me more than anything in the world, the woman that I love more than I have ever loved another and more than anything in the world, I finally healed a bit. I healed in the crushing pain of a truth that I could not stand to see. I was not loved like a verb and the empty words that captivated my heart and set my soul on fire, they were just words. This person was unkind and vengeful and mean and cruel, and no matter how I try to paint this picture differently, I was thrown away. I have been thrown away, so, so many times. Looking into Tamara’s eyes that morning though, I knew that I would never be thrown away again. I love you Tamara and I thank you so much for how you love me like a verb…how you love me for the best and the worst of me and how you hold space for me and for us and how you have helped me to open my eyes and begin to live a life in alignment with my own soul.

I sit here kind of peacefully, and my heart hurts and keeps beating, to a rhythm all its own…I begin to find my honor beat, as I allow what no longer serves me to fall away from me and to be returned to the universe to be recycled for the greater good of us all. And so it is. Have a beautiful day everyone! I love you!

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