Page 2 of My Turn Petal
Do I listen to too many audiobooks? Possibly.
Am I terrified of a man’s groin getting trapped within my dysfunctional body?
All are valid questions with a simple answer.Maybe.I don’t overrule any thought. I know some of those things aren’t really true but subconsciously they plague my mind.
Even the thoughts I have about my parents, growing up with criticism all around me didn’t add anything good to my overflowing bucket of emotions.
Their life view couldn’t have been more different than mine. Our mindsets are day and night and I’m done explaining things they wouldn’t understand because of a lack of education.
My actions, who I’ve become, and what I’m going through is my business. And my hard work.
They mean well but their hysterical personalities are feeding my anxiety and I need peace, calmness, and acceptance.
Am I afraid of getting abandoned, forgotten, or hurt?I add that to the journal.
I don’t trust most people, everyone comes with a gift receipt. At least, that’s what it feels like these days. Most don’t bother to stay present in your life. Or just play the victim when things don’t go their way.
Despite of that though, I am putting myself out there. I don’t let it prevent me from finding my happiness.
It’s out of my control but I’m doing everything I can to overcome this. Itryand it’s all a person can do.
Putting my journal in the nightstand drawer, I hop on my yoga mat to do my wall exercises. Starting with a happy baby position, I rock myself sideways—relaxing the stiffness I inflicted earlier.
I stretch my legs on the wall in different positions, learning to sense and control every part of my body. I look around my room, fixating on the oak shelf hanging above my bed—filled with books and candles—on each side, a fake green plant dangles in the air.
I rotate my head to ease the tension on my neck, my reflection peeking at me through the arched mirror leaning on the wall at the top and resting on the stripped rug by the side of the bed.
Why does it have to be so complicated?The thought crosses my mind as I continue.
The natural light coming from the wide windows above me casts a soft glow around my bedroom.
The instructor in my earphones is explaining a breathing exercise I love. It helped me control the imaginable balloon I feel in my belly—the one controlling my pelvic floor and allowing accessibility to my pussy. Her words, not mine.
“Fill your lungs with oxygen, and inhale to the side of your ribcage.“ That is what the instructor says.
I do it every morning for thirty minutes with no interruptions.
This is my safe space.
My therapeutic area.
My temple.
After another successful yoga session, the coffee machine gears roll as a new day kicks in.
The strong aroma of the brew infiltrates my nostrils and wakes my calm body.
I grab the carafe, pouring myself a cup of ambition; Dolly Parton was right about that.
Taking a seat on my comfy beige couch, I drink in the aromatic scent, slowly swallowing the liquid in.
I grab my phone from the coffee table. The last post of a tattoo session I did yesterday and posted last night to my social media, already got over five hundred likes.
“Nice.” I compliment myself on this exciting news. It’s the only place I have control over things. I don’t have control over other aspects of my life—like sex—but this baby is my pride and joy and the confidence builder I worked on for the past six years.
As if I summoned him, Jude’s number crosses the screen, and my finger slides to accept the call.
“Morning,” it comes out gloomy and colder than my brain intended.
