Smoke Gets in Your (Third) Eye

Yoga teachers are interesting paradoxes.  While we're busy reassuring others of the perfect, eternal, undefinable Spirit within (and really, truly believing it); our own lives are often wrought with self-denial, self-hate, putting others before ourselves, posturing and a yen for outside validation.  If you're looking for a yoga teacher who is a living, breathing incarnation of unconditional self-love and acceptance; you will most likely find eventual disappointment.  If you are seeking a partner on your path, someone who every now and then speaks to your own Divine inner teacher, and someone who can use their human-ness to create a framework for self-reflection, you'll find those in abundance.


Okay, let's cut through the pontificating (awesome word, BTW).  It comes as no surprise to anyone that I (if we must put a formal name to it) deal with depression.  What is surprising is that I'm calling it by name and just putting it out there.  After I'm done advocating self-love (not that kind of self-love, people) and reverence toward your divine self for roughly 75-minute windows, I'm whipping myself.  This is what goes on in my head:


"You should be a better mother."
"You don't deserve S. (my husband)"
"The front lawn looks crazy.  Why aren't you working on that?"
"You should be making more money."
"You should be thinner."
"You shouldn't be eating meat."
"You should be yogi-er."


That kind of bullshit.


It's this kind of self-talk, borne of all the usual childhood abuses and genetic predispositions, that lies at the heart of episodes of epic self-hate and the potential dissolution of my marriage.  My discontent with self has the unfortunate side-effect of resentment and condescension toward others; what I've tried to position as a sort of tough love or above-it-all-ness.  I've set my own personal standards so impossibly high, it's unlikely anyone could meet them.   


Patanjali wrote that this world, this life, exists solely to recognize and manifest our Divinity.  Without this frame of reference, we cannot separate the real from the unreal, the fleeting and the eternal.  I have my work cut out for me.


I'll be back to read this in another year, I'm sure, with equal parts sympathy and not a little embarrassment.  What I'm really trying to do here is quit denying myself.  I don't deserve a prize for it, but neither should I constantly second-guess myself.  


My husband and I have decided to see a therapist.  I write this with a mixture of relief and a bit of a chuckle.  We're gonna do it.  We're going to hop on that wagon and be that suburban couple in therapy.  I can begin sentences with, "My therapist said...," or "I learned in therapy...".  For God's sake, I hope it helps.  I don't really think it could make things worse.  I can see the light!  In fact, I see it quite often.  I would just like to park my ever-lovin' soul there for good.  Or at least long-term.


When S. made the appointment, he was asked, "Is there any physical abuse in the relationship?"  He said  no.  


"That's a good start, then," the good doctor replied.  "We can put you both in the same room.  We have couples who come in here and, at some point, the wife gets up and whacks her husband upside his head.  So at least we don't have that to deal with."


This is true.