"HOW LONG UNTIL...

“How Long Until I’m Allowed to Enjoy What I Survived For?”

I Am Still Human // On the Brutal Grace of Becoming

I’ve been observing my ‘new’ life for a while now. The shift from suffering to pleasure. And most of what I’m observing? It’s the brainloops. The ones that make me feel insane. They scream that I’m FOR SURE fucking up my life. Self-destructive, at the very least.

They say: “I need to focus on building a business, making money, being responsible — like every other fucking adult.”

Instead of that, I’m dancing. I’m drinking. I’m meeting people. I’m obsessing over a (cute) man. I’m learning the art of boundaries, of communicating my wishes. Surrendering to pleasure. Mastering the art of nothing. Not “learning to breathe” — just being. Not pushing. Not fixing. Not performing pain-management like a well-trained patient.

And it made me angry as fuck.

So what was it?

After what felt like weeks, eons, hours of speaking, integrating, spiraling, reflecting — the realization landed:

For the first time in over ten years, I can go outside whenever I want to. I can do groceries. (Not every day. Not as easily as “normal” people might think. But I CAN.) I can dance daily — even in pain. I can speak up. I can put boundaries where I used to let people walk all over me in the name of “peace.” I can say no. I can say fuck you.

Even though the fear of a sudden attack still lives in my body — the last big one was months ago now. The small ones (where I can’t speak, or can’t cut my food) still happen often. But the difference is: I don’t collapse under the fear or shame anymore.

Fear and shame — the biggest echoes of the past identity — are still here. But I’m not run by them. Not entirely.

And it’s funny how, the moment you finally see, your brain expects the Titanic to turn in an instant. But we all know the laws on this planet don’t work like that.

I wasn’t allowed (by my mind) to sink into this new freedom. I needed to work. Work just as hard as I did post-accident to survive the pain.

But I am EXHAUSTED.

My nervous system is curled deep inward. And when I look, I see just how far she had to stretch to survive the past decade.

And yet — no grace. No moment of real pause to say:

“Lincy, the one who collapsed on the floor multiple times a day, who couldn’t go outside, who couldn’t even lift a fork — she wanted to live this life you’re now living.”

A life where I can and do. And the brain says: “Well, if you can do that… you must be able to do more.”

But is that true?

Must I be able to DO more? Or am I allowed to enjoy this dancing, drinking, arousing, free woman?

I wrote a poem the other day — about forcefully trying to change the unconscious pattern of suffering into a consciously chosen path of pleasure. It went like this:

And it’s true. The contradiction is real:

Without doing, there is no change. But without being, there is no doing.

Do you see where I’m going?

Who is watching?

The being has changed — that’s for sure. I felt it. Like the Earth crumbled underneath me. The timeline shifted. And so, we return again to surrendering.

The active energy of surrendering becomes the leader again. It is the bridge between creating and being. But right now, I can’t fully see it. It hurts. The brain had different expectations.

What if I’m just fucking up this new life I chose?

What if I’m behind?

What if I miss the boat?

And yet — part of the truth is this: I am learning to trust myself. With the small steps. The ones that match the body of someone who couldn’t go outside for years without collapsing. It didn’t happen overnight.

But the realization that “it’s done” — That I am ABLE TO LIVE — That one broke my brain again.

And still — a question lingers: What was the role of “laziness” here? Or “wanting to be sick”? Because the norm is the norm, and when you don’t fit it, your system finds a way to survive in the margins.

Welcome to the circus of a chronic pain, C-PTSD life. Fucking hell.

Trust is fragile where the brain takes over. But trust is also a practice. It lives in being. But how do I meet the nuance between having a choice within the reality of there being no choice?

And here’s the strangest, most beautiful thing:

I AM.

I see everything in a new light. It shakes my system to the core. And still — I cry. I dance. I write. I create. I grieve. I fear. I shift. I pivot. I breathe. I am in an almost constant meditative state. And I am STILL human.

The beauty of this is tangled in the greatest disappointment: Even my second awakening didn’t “save” me from being this intense, deep-feeling, whole-digging human.

And maybe that’s the grace after all.

WIthObsession

Lincy