Why am I so fucked up? She half-prayed, half-asked herself.
She was sitting in the spare bedroom of her apartment on a Korean mattress, hugging her knees.
She had just finished her morning routine of some form of exercise (today, walking—walking seemed to be all she had the energy to do these days) and some form of meditation for 10 minutes (today, transforming negative energy).
For good measure, she’d thrown in the “reading a passage from a spiritual book of some sort” this morning, because she knew she didn’t feel right in her heart or her spirit.
And still it wasn’t enough, because as she was wrapping up the passage from Love without Conditions, after she had made the obligatory facebook update with something deep and meaningful, her bones, her hollow parts inside, still called for her to pray.
Even though prayer was all but meaningless to her these days, she knew to heed that call, and so there she sat, even though it was just about time to get up and start getting ready for work.
She hugged her knees to her chest, and she asked God and herself why she was so weak? Why did she repeat the same patterns? Why was she so fucked up?
And then she listened when a stern voice answered that she was not fucked up—that “fucked up” was an excuse, and that she was no longer allowed to excuse herself in that way.
She repeated that mantra.
“I am not fucked up. Fucked up is an excuse. I will no longer allow myself the luxury of being fucked up.
“I am a perfectly sane person with completely legitimate and valid reasons for my behaviors. I will no longer allow myself the luxury of sweeping them under the rug of ‘fucked up.’”
And then she took a deep breath and asked herself what was really wrong.
And settled on that she was scared.