Shame.

You’re too fat. You’re the wrong age, the wrong height, the wrong size, the wrong shape, the wrong type, too slow, too quick for your own good. You’re too dark, too light. You’re “only pretty”. You’ll never look like that. You’re ugly as sin. You could be a model. You’re plain. You’re nothing without your makeup. The beard makes you look like a dork. You should go natural. You’re a pizza face. Cover that shit up. Why can’t you be bothered to take care of yourself?

You’re a wallflower. You’re too loud. You don’t speak up for yourself. You’re too defensive. Too passive. You’re too angry. Too aggressive. You’re much too sensitive. Too needy, too self-possessed, too self-obsessed. You’re an easy target. You put yourself on a pedestal. You’re too outspoken. Too independent. Too negligent. Too proud. Too humble. You’re too easily influenced. You’re too stubborn.  What’s your problem, anyway?

You need to speak out. You need to shut up. You need to stand out. You need to play dead. You ought to have the strength of your convictions. You should do as you’re told. Keep your nose clean. Be yourself. Don’t rock the boat. March to the beat of your own drummer. Why can’t you be a team player?

You haven’t slept with enough people. You’re a slut....unless you’re a stud. You’re an old maid. An old fart. You’re pussy-whipped. You’ve checked out. You’re too involved. You give too much. You’re completely useless. You’re a busybody. You’re always helping the wrong people, making the wrong decisions, doing the wrong thing, hanging with the wrong crowd. You need to get seen. You need to be invisible. You need the right things. All of them. Real people have the right things. The right house, the right track, the right career, the right connections, the right clothes, the right car. Wal-Mart is for the subnormals. Are you subnormal?

They saw you were weak. They didn’t like your friends. The way you dressed. Your bumper stickers. Your books. Your thoughts. The things you did. The things they imagined you did. You didn’t share their interests. Wrong faith, man, wrong practice on the wrong day. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time. You fought back. You tried to ignore them. You pointed them out. You asked for it. You flaunt it. You give it away for free, so they came and took as much as they wanted. What were you expecting?

Pull yourself up by your own bootstraps. You shouldn’t need any help. You’re a parasite. You work too much. You’re lazy. You’re too young to understand. You’re too old to be making these kinds of mistakes. You don’t have anything to offer. You’re sitting on your talents. You should do something popular. Sell your soul on the open market. Make something unique. Take risks. Play it safe. You should have known better. You’re nothing but excuses. Just get over it. Why can’t you get your act together?

You should be ashamed of yourself.

Go Ahead.

Fall.

See if I care. 

I'll be laughing as I follow you 



all


the


way 


until you hit



BOTTOM.

Practice.

What does it mean to practice healing?

Like practicing faith, or a craft, or a trade, you learn how to do things right by doing a lot of things wrong. You observe yourself in the aftermath of your actions to see what worked and what didn't. You take what worked and graft it to your routine.

The process functions best when you can avoid beating the shit out of yourself for making mistakes in the first place.


I’ve been learning what it means to practice healing. I think of it this way:

A mistake is a stumble. Beating the shit out of yourself for failing to be perfect? That’s rewarding yourself with a face-plant on the concrete.

You commit an act of self-healing when you throw out your hands and catch yourself.


That takes practice.

I resist doing this simple act. I’ve practiced bouncing my head off the ground after every stumble and let me tell you, after 39 years of training, I am GOOD at it. Better than good: I’m AWESOME at inflating every mistake until it’s Kaiju-sized. My brain looks like Tokyo after Godzilla’s gone on a bender.

I practice healing when I accept the consequences of a mistake without using it as a means to diminish myself.

You are the sum of ALL your actions, words, gifts and blows, your slips, your tumbles, your moments in the sun and your jail time spent in the dark. You practice healing when you choose to restrain yourself from swinging wild in your rage. You practice healing when you choose to bleed your pain away by acts of kindness instead of compounding the agony through cruelty towards yourself or anyone nearby. You practice healing when you risk opening yourself to the prize at the center of a mistake instead of turning away for another round of I’m Such A Fuck-Up.

And by you practicing healing, I mean me, too.


I’m taking it one drawing at a time.