FINDING YOUR VOICE #14

Free Writing

Audio: https://soundcloud.com/tia-188659352/tiakeo_findyourvoice_14

Twenty years. TWENTY years! Somewhere inside her brain she still felt twenty years old herself, not old enough to have been married that long. The moment pause felt like cracking open the human brain, cycling through complex thoughts at the speed of light. "Are you just going to ignore me?" he asked. "I asked you a question." She realized her mouth had been stuck open but nothing had come out. He was getting irritated, triggered by a pattern behavior. It occurred to her that these patterns may have existed even before them, but it simply didn't serve her in this moment. His answers always came easy, one word. Hers were tied to a winding string that never seemed to find its end. She didn't want to answer wrong and be held to it.

"How do our brains do that?" she wondered to herself. How are we able to gather all of the lived memory and synthesize it into one thing, one feeling, one answer? Looking at their list of accomplishments, they'd done well enough. Their children were still alive, too, so that was worth something. But there were still issues. She supposed everyone had issues, every relationship does. The longer she stuck in her groove, the easier life passed by and she knew that wasn't a good thing. It was like ignoring the elephant balancing on her shoulders just because she could still move about and complete the necessary functions. He didn't understand her words anymore, if they came out of her mouth. She could feel them distorting in mid-air. It didn't matter if she tried to explain, it actually made it worse. She could see every inch of his skin harden, he'd hold his breath, and then he might as well have turned red. She couldn't get through to him anymore, so she navigated him like unexploded-bombs in the rice paddies of his country. How could he expect her to want to be intimate if he ignited her defenses the other 99% of the time?

Intimacy for her was about feeling connected in mind and mission ... and then body. She wanted that kind of sensation. She wanted to feel seen - and revered. Resentment was the language now, for what she did and what she didn't do. Who wants to be fucked by resentment?

Twenty years was feeling more like an work anniversary than the mark of a journey together. They had married quickly. Not a shot-gun wedding, more like a mutual understanding of what it means to dive into life together. There were so many ways of seeing that synced between them, even some of the weird, extreme views. They would circle a situation from different sides and ultimately end-up at the same spot, off center. They clashed in their synchronicity until they created a breath-taking stillness. At their best, they were the soundest core foundation, no decorations - no frills. At their worst they were a mess of electrons whizzing around the nucleus, missing each other, separating further to the edge of explosion.

FINDING YOUR VOICE #13

expansion on writing for lesson #12

audio: https://soundcloud.com/tia-188659352/tiakeo_findyourvoice_13

Her bare feet were placed squarely beneath her on the cool tile floor, her seat planted snugly in the orange designer arm chair at her desk. The studio was silent apart from the soft purring of office electronics and energy efficient bulbs and the periodic tap-tap-tap of her boys walking between the kitchen and their room upstairs. Stacks of papers rested to the left and right of her chair and her arms slid in around the stack in the middle until her fingers reached the keyboard. She dropped her head to view the pile in front of her. Her work day always started with the sheet she'd laid on top the night before - her way of plugging back into her work-brain despite the fact that she was physically still in her home. "The clutter has no problem crossing the line" she thought, as the feeling of overwhelm found her.

If she closed her eyes she was back in time, on that wicked carnival ride. What was it called? The Zipper? Her body had been strapped, tied-tight to the metal seat. As the disheveled ride operator went through the motions of locking them into the cage, her eyes moved for the rest of her body. The flashing lights merged with the quick motion of other rides. She could see her young kids with their father looking up at her from a safe distance with a slight bit of worry. The noisy discord that resulted from too many digitized melodies made it impossible to hear anything beyond the confines of their pod. Were their mouths moving? Once all points had been secured and without notice, the half-baked Carny released them from the platform and their vessel swung into a state of imbalance - a soft back and forth that could have felt soothing were it not for the odd center of gravity.

As she sat at her desk now, facing the to-do list at the top of the stack, she could feel the ride hum into action. The movement of the arm temporarily settled their cart and she found herself exhaling as they rose higher to the top of their ascent. They rounded the peak and she recalled how quickly the ride turned for her. How suddenly all points of reference were lost except for the metal bars in front of her. Her orientation went unsubstantiated at first. After several seconds of waiting for it to settle, things only got worse. They were spinning on multiple axes at once and there was no ground or sky, no east or west. Every swear word had come to the front of her mouth then and she'd released them like a plea to who-ever could hear her. "This is awesome!" her brother had responded, assuming her cursing was done in excitement. He loved the thrill, the letting go. She'd tried to go inward, to hold her organs in place, her brain and eyes and stomach. Everything went silent, moving in slow motion. For some reason this didn't feel like letting go, it felt like giving-up, surrendering to the pressure.

That was it!

For so many years she'd surrendered to the pressure of others, while kicking and screaming in a way that wouldn't get her in trouble with her mother. Loud mouth complaints, while buckling at the knees and doing precisely what was expected of her. Was it any wonder that their attitude became dismissive towards her? Pointing out the discrepancy with no agency to change it only perpetuated a futile resistance. She'd resisted so hard and for so long, that now, when she had a real chance to be free, to react from within herself, she was too disoriented to know where to begin. She hadn't practiced that part. This was her desk, in her house. It was her mess, her stacks of papers, her ability to decide and she wasn't. The same silence emerged from the spinning and she could hear her own voice in her head. "What was it all for anymore?" What was happiness? ... Purpose? In the whirling of her mind, the big things became little and the little became big. Had she had it all wrong all this time?

She took her hands off the keys, quickly as if the truth were too hot to touch. The clicking of the keyboard fell silent and the cursor blinked inaudibly. Resting her face in her hands, it was like she was in that carnival cage again - She had no idea which end was up.

FINDING YOUR VOICE #12

audio: https://soundcloud.com/tia-188659352/tiakeo_findyourvoice_12

Out of control.

Ungrounded.

Spinning.

Her feet were placed squarely beneath her, her seat in the chair at her desk, where she always started her work day. But, if she closed her eyes she was back in time, on that wicked carnival ride. What was it called? The Zipper? Her body had been strapped, tied-tight to the metal seat, as the half-baked carny went through the motions of locking them into the cage. Once all points had been secured, he released them from the platform and their vessel swung into a state of imbalance - back and forth with the odd center of gravity.

As she sat at her desk now, facing her finished to-do list, she could feel the ride hum into action. She knew how quickly the ride turned for her. How suddenly all points of reference were lost, her orientation unsubstantiated, spinning on multiple axes. Every swear word had come to the front of her mouth and she'd released them like a plea to who-ever could hear her. "This is awesome!" her brother had added to the call. He loved the thrill, the letting go. She'd tried to go inward, to hold her organs in place, her brain and eyes and stomach. For some reason this didn't feel like letting go, it felt like giving-up, surrendering to the pressure.

That was it!

For so many years she'd surrendered to the pressure of others, kicking and screaming. Loud mouth complaints, while buckling at the knees. She'd resisted so hard for so long, that now, when she had a real chance to be free, to react from within herself, she was too disoriented to know where to begin. What was it all for anymore? What was happiness? .. Purpose? The big things became little and the little became big. Had she had it all wrong all this time?

She took her hands off the keys. The keyboard fell silent and the cursor blinked. Resting her face in her hands, it was like she was in that carnival cage again - She had no idea which end was up.

FINDING YOUR VOICE #11

audio: https://soundcloud.com/tia-188659352/tiakeo_findyourvoice_11

Rejection had never felt like this before. Her heart had done a free-fall and now sat on top of her feet. This was worse than tricks from middle-school boys, but the feeling was similar. Her empty chest filled with a familiar hot adrenaline as if she had done something wrong, as if her very existence was wrong. And yet, she couldn't deny that she knew it was coming. Her instincts were dialed-in and after her brain cycled through all the feelings of shame, she could see the truth emerging through the fog of her ego. They weren't her people. Period.

FINDING YOUR VOICE #10

audio: https://soundcloud.com/tia-188659352/tiakeo_findyourvoice_10

What if all of this was just busy work? Another way to pretend that she was doing her best? When really she was avoiding the truth because it would rip her open.

FINDING YOUR VOICE #9 : Restart Button

This is an elaboration on #8 - merging lesson #9 from Robin, and feedback from Emily on the piece from #8 … The original piece is highlighted in bold:

Audio: https://soundcloud.com/tia-188659352/restart-button-by-tia-keo

Restart Button   by Tia Keo

Her pointer-finger slides in an upward motion across the screen. Once. Twice. Two swipes worth and no evidence of herSELF in her feed. She hadn't shared a selfie in a while, hadn't even taken one. The thought of it made her insides bubble over. 

Why was it not enough for her work to represent her? The daily artwork that she was sharing was more vulnerable than a selfie! Her mind paused for a moment, because she knew that wasn't the whole truth. Vulnerable was the fact that she hadn't felt good about her body in such a long time, that even with the tricky angles of deception that she'd managed before, the lie felt like it only hurt herself now. The selfies had kept record of looking good - evidence of feeling good, at least about her body - or ... how it looked. 

She had a strong body, naturally dense muscles that wouldn't win any speed records but could carry her across pavement for over 26 miles. The feeling of being in that kind of shape made every cell in her body ache. How could she simultaneously long to exist as she had before the burn-out without judging all the meaningful growth she'd experienced in other, deeper ways? 

It still felt like being cut-off from her friends, having her body put a stop to her ways. Identities lost, wiped-out in an instant. Her mind flashes back to the close-up texture of her yoga towel as she silently wept, mouth wide open against the floor. If her body hadn't pulled the plug, she'd probably still be there. 

But she wasn't there. She is sitting on the floor in her living room, wearing a moo-moo, breasts resting on her pudgy belly, thighs merging into her rump to complete the blob that is her middle-aged body.  The summer sun beams in through the window making the part of her arm that was in it hot. She used to run in this weather. She used to look good in summer clothes … "and … cared too much about what others thought of her to even know the sound of her inner voice!" said her inner voice.  

The ache in her heart ignited a sting in her eyes as she contemplated her existence between a rock and a hard place. Would she ever be free from this mad cycle of brain-washed PTSD? In the wake of "breaking herself" she'd taken three months off to recover. She made it through that first class without any crying, but the pounding and splitting of her brain for hours afterwards was almost worse. In one day, she'd confirmed that she wouldn't be going back to who she'd been before. 

There was no shortage of information on the internet that could speculate what was wrong with her, but doctors didn't take any of it seriously. Amidst the cacophony of speculation that one little piece of wisdom, taken from her hair tissue, still rang true: 

"The Four Lows is a condition of extreme burn out. Certain personality types are more likely to find themselves in the Four Lows pattern. While it is possible to pull themselves out in the short term, unless/until they address the personality traits that got them into this situation, they may find themselves here again." 

That one shot right through the heart. Truth. 

Five years later, she'd made deep, quality changes that had been earned every step of the way. She'd found her way back to art and her purpose, but her body had also changed. She tried to embrace it, but still battled the nagging “success” of her past. When it came down to it, she knew that she could get back in shape again, if that was her goal. But art consumed more and more of her and she didn't want to sacrifice that practice to do all that was required physically. But still it nagged. 

Even though she knew all of the ways that women had been bullied into a mold (and that was a good enough reason to reject it) something deep inside of her still wanted to fit in it! Madness! Was it residual mental programming, or was it because she couldn't ... or wouldn't? Could an inferiority-complex really birth a body-image rebellion? That was the real question. Her rebellion had so often been received as anger. Without her acceptable body to confuse people, her anger meant she was dismissed as "that kind" of woman. You know the kind, daring enough to speak her mind to people who aren’t used to hearing it. 

The extremes of every aspect of her life rung in her ears like a pendulum swinging inside her empty skull. With each vibration she became disoriented, less certain of everything. As if caught in a trap of assumptions, her own arguments began working against themselves. She spiraled from one extreme to the next, evermore dizzy. She took a nose-dive through the false narratives until the only way to find calm was to eat her way to full. 

Still sitting on the floor, she munched on snacks left on the coffee table the night before. They really were soothing her. She tried to ignore the fact that she had started chewing before realizing the food had entered her mouth. 

She knew her coping patterns so well that she was living on the road map. The paths were so well worn that sometimes they drove themselves. But, deep down she knew it wasn't enough anymore to simply know them. She needed to catch them before they put her on autopilot. Better yet, maybe try a different map? 

If she made herself hyper aware of the details of this road, she could look for an out! The crunching overtook the pendulum-gong in her head, like white noise. 

“This is a good plan, keep going down this road.”

Her search for the emergency exit continued until the whole bag was empty. She licked the condensed cheesy-powder off her thumb and then her pointer finger. The same finger that had swiped her into this mess. 

Where was the RESTART button? 

Surely there had to be an alternative reality. 

FINDING YOUR VOICE #8

Photo + one paragraph

audio: https://soundcloud.com/tia-188659352/tiakeo_findyourvoice_08

She hadn't shared a selfie in a while, hadn't even taken one. The thought of it made her insides bubble over. She hadn't felt good about her body in such a long time, that even with the tricky angles of deception that she'd managed before, the lie felt like it only hurt herself now. How could she simultaneously long to exist as she had before the burn-out without judging all the meaningful growth she'd experienced in other, deeper ways? Would she ever be free from this mad cycle of brain-washed PTSD? Could an inferiority-complex really birth a body-image rebellion? As if caught in a trap of assumptions, she spiraled from one extreme to the next, nose-diving through false narratives until the only way to find calm was to eat her way to full. She knew her coping patterns so well that she was living on the road map. It wasn't enough anymore to simply know them. Her search for the emergency exit continued. Where was the RESTART button? Surely there had to be an alternative reality.

FINDING YOUR VOICE #7

Audio: https://soundcloud.com/tia-188659352/tiakeo_findyourvoice_07

Every turn in the new direction would be matched, twisted, tied down by old habits. She'd made the realization months ago. She knew it. She could see it, in her mind and even with her eyes, looking straight ahead until they blurred. To-do lists were obliterated by the blank agenda. The old accolades held no relevance. After each intentional exhale, she gulped the air into her lungs like she was grasping at straws. She had planted her feet here knowing what was to come next, but all these months later she was still in the same spot, still batting away all of her old tricks. At least now she saw them for what they were: bandaids, coping mechanisms, dampers to shove it all back down again. She knew how to over-fill her time, how to over-fill herself - in order to avoid decisions. She hadn't learned to sit in it, to trust it, to rely on it. The games she had played (and won) were not even in the same league. This would be a major upgrade, and all the old measures of success were useless. Her shoulders began to shake and her chest felt as if it might cave in. She wasn't a child anymore. This wasn't a toy she could go back and forth about. She was a big girl now and the window would close eventually ... with or without her.