Been having trouble writing lately. I guess trouble isn’t fair to say. I haven’t even been trying. I do go so far as to write in my planner to “Start a writing practice…at least 30 min/day!!”
Pretty cute, I know.
Too bad I don’t do a damn thing with it.
And yet, here I am today. I’m choosing to be compassionate with myself, rather than hateful and critical. It’s hard. It’s much easier for me to keep talking shit to myself the way I have been for the last few months…
Continue reading self-compassion and punishment.
I have been scrolling through my newsfeed the last few days, reading, “liking,” and sharing certain articles addressing the devastating news of the killing of Alton Sterling and Philando Castile by police officers. Even just typing that sentence feels disgusting and cowardly. I’ve been silent beside those swipes of my fingers. I have felt sick, enraged, helpless, guilty, hopeless, devastated, and weak.
Although, quite frankly, I’m not sure it matters how I feel…and coming from a therapist, I know that is a pretty rich thing to say. I say that because it doesn’t matter what I feel in this situation, it matters what I do (or don’t do). It matters what I say (and don’t say). It’s like I tell my clients, young and old, feelings are there to tell you something, often to spring you into action, hopefully thoughtful action. But here I am. Actionless. White, privileged, and absolutely zero action.
Continue reading my silence and inaction as a white person.