Today my energy meter has been dipping into the red. I’m not sure why. In the middle of the night when I turned over, I felt the liquid in my sinuses slosh from one side to the other, so maybe it’s allergies. Oh wait, I don’t technically have allergies; I have intolerances. Maybe it’s intolerances. Regardless, something has me wiped out. Even after sleeping as late as possible this morning and taking a nap this afternoon, I’ve barely been able to keep my eyes open all evening. Now it’s 10:30. Maybe I can knock this out and be back in bed before midnight.

In honor of yesterday’s 450th blog post (in a row), this evening I did a live video on Facebook and read one of my previously unshared essays. The essay, called A Crack in the Wall, deals with my longstanding history of sinus infections and something I tried to help them. (I let a massage therapist put his finger up my nose.) Here’s the video if you’re interested. It’s 28 minutes in length.

In re-reading the essay earlier, I was reminded of several experiences I’ve had along this healing journey–memories and emotions that have come up during massage therapy or yoga sessions, for instance. There’s a section in the essay in which I say that my body is my very best friend–it’s been there for every experience I’ve ever had–it remembers even when I don’t. This is the benefit, I think, to having your inner life on paper. Not that you have to share everything with everyone, but it’s there as a reminder for you. So often I gloss over what I’ve gone through. I forget that my body has a thousand reasons to be tired or in need of a break. I forget that Sweetheart, we’ve been through a lot.

Going through the essay today, however, I was reminded. When I originally wrote it, I broke down in tears a number of times. That wasn’t my goal setting out; it never is when I write. (I’m going to cry!) But if I’m writing, digging around in my subconscious, and start crying, I know I’ve hit on something real. That hurt my feelings, That scared me, whatever. So many times the last several years I’ve thought, I’m over that, but then I start bawling in therapy or while writing and am faced with the truth–I’m not really over it.

Completely.

It’s funny how we can fool ourselves. I don’t know, maybe you can be over something in your head but not over it in your heart or tight shoulders. For me that’s the benefit of writing or having a body–these are ways to get into myself. My default for so long has been to have walls up. I used to have a friend that would say, “How are you feeling–really?” I’d say, “Fine, I’m just fine,” and believe it. That’s the thing with walls. At some point, you get accustomed to them–you forget what life was like before you put them up. Maybe you get so used to looking at concrete, you even say, “Walls? What walls?”

Again, I think this is the value of writing or going to therapy. For you it could be yoga or meditation. Even dancing or knitting. You just need a way to sneak into yourself, to see things in a different way, to stop buying your own bullshit. Fine, I’m just fine. (Please.) I’m not suggesting we go around looking for problems, that we all start telling ourselves and others, “I’m fucked up, I’m just fucked up.” But–at least for myself–I am suggesting that if your body is tired or hurting, perhaps you need to rest and take care of yourself rather than soldiering through. Perhaps physical symptoms–and emotions!–weren’t meant to be ignored. (Who knew?) This is a lesson I’m learning over and over again–to listen not just to my head but also to my heart, to be patient with my body and the healing process, to gently and tolerantly de-wall myself.