I also found myself being frustrated with this new found knowledge. Sometimes I still do. I want to grab the disbelievers, the people still struggling, the outsiders looking in, and press my forehead against theirs, hoping that by some form of osmosis, they will know what I know. I feel my mouth, starting to move, but no sounds come out. The complexity of the situation is so vast, that simple words could not do it justice. And also, my journey is my own. Everyone else deserves theirs. So, I take a step back, and I let go. Sometimes gracefully, sometimes clumsily…but I trust that others will find their own meaning and way, and that maybe the story of my own self-discovery will help give them the strength and courage they need to find their own peace.
Sometimes, I do not think I can contain all of the happiness I have come to find in the face of a dark and troubled path. It seems absurd. How can a person feel tangibly filled with an intangible item? How do I physically feel bursting at the seams with positive emotion? I physically feel it in every fiber of my being and in my bones. I feel it deep in my chest, where I think my lungs and heart all hang out. This is even more shocking to me considering that I still see room for improvement. If I can improve my habits and thought processes further, how will I be able to contain all that contentment? Is this feeling stretching and swelling me so I can grasp even more? It’s a slow moving process, so I suspect the universe is just revealing things to me in due time. It feels free. It feels like I'm standing at the top of a summit on a crisp fall day. It feels like I'm standing with my toes in the ocean on a mild spring morning. It feels like I'm out for run in the snow, breathing in the eye-opening air. It feels like I'm doing cartwheels, barefoot, in a grassy lawn on a warm summer afternoon.
When I close my eyes and watch my life roll behind me in the rear view mirror that is my mind, my heart swells like the vast expanse of the cliffs we saw while driving up the California coast; the waterfall that we hiked to, falling from high, in a state park in Georgia; the mountain we drove to the top of, Clingman’s Dome, on the border of Tennessee and North Carolina. My eyes were closed to opportunities before. Before the mental illness, before the alcoholism, before the marriage…when I was on my own, I would have never imagined the life that I lead today. I would have never even have been open to the possibilities and choices that I see clearly in front of me now. And here I am, participating instead of spectating; doing instead of talking; being the person I never knew I could be, rather than the victim I have always played. The lessons have been hard, but the rewards have been worth all the while.