Everytime I do something that lifts me up, or I do something I haven’t been able to do before, I always have a week of depression that follows it. Longer depending on how high I rose. Without fail.
I only took note of that recurring pattern this year. It used to cause me a lot of despair before. It’s like a step forward, ten steps back. But that wasn’t what was actually happening.
When I’m lifted, I’m also opened and places deep within that had been out of the reach of my awareness come alive, like buds to the advent of spring. Lodged and lost memories rush to the surface as what was previously dead and stagnant is animated. The paradox of believing nothing will change and the change itself, creates a great deal of uproar and tension and confusion.
I’m acclimatizing. My psyche is adapting, recalibrating, trying to pivot. Much like jet lag or inoculation or muscle ache from a new workout. Any shift has to be integrated because it not only brings something out of you, it also imbues you with new energies.
When I understand this, it’s easier to calm the panicked thoughts down that think we’re going back in time again. I hold space for my thoughts through the liminality, and it’s the most vital part because that’s before the shift takes root and when it’s most likely to be discarded. Much like the body rejecting a transplanted organ.