Letting Go

I have racing thoughts.  A lot of them, and all the time.  It’s either a part of my mental illness, or it’s a reaction to the medications that I’m on.  I have to ask the psychiatrist if there’s anything that can be done, though I dread adding another chemical to my daily cocktail.

With my racing thoughts I want everything done yesterday.  I want to plan for events so far in advance it’s ridiculous.  I’m tetchy, on edge, sometimes nervous other times dickish.  The only total and complete cure for this state of being is alcohol.  Yes, a pair of fingers of Irish whiskey, a fat cigar, and those annoying thoughts settle right down.  I’m in the moment, in the zone, when I have a little liquor in the belly.  As an alcoholic those moments , brief and ephemeral, are like fading glimpses of a nirvana never entirely known.  Clues, ephemera of lost Shangri-La.

Which is why being told that if I let go into the tao of living, the racing thoughts will subside, is so hurtful.  I know it’s right, but all those racing thoughts say no, say to pack a parachute first, to be prepared.  Trungpa Rinpoche said that the bad news is that you’re falling, no parachute, nothing to grab onto.  The good news is that there is no ground.  I recall that in moments like this, and wish I were braver, wish I could step to the edge, look down into it, smile and jump.

It’s more like I cower my way to the edge, close my eyes rather than look into it, cringe and run away.

I can’t this time, though.

I’m looking down into the gaping maw of life, the rush of it, the forceful strength of it, knowing that I have to jump in, that it’s the only way the thoughts will go away, it’s the only way I can move past the pent up fear and fully live, fully embrace life.  It’s the only way I stand a chance of keeping my girlfriend, it’s the only chance I have to drop all that hurt and annoyance when it comes to my family, it’s the only way I can accept who I am with all my limitations and not cry over all the spilt milk.

I have to do it.  Forced to lean over the edge like this, hair tossed a million different ways at once, face revealed in a golden glow and all sound reduced to the white noise of rushing air.  I must jump.  I must trust there is no ground.  I must do it.

OK, so how?