No, I am not relaying the phrases I utter to screaming children.  These are the phrases I've uttered to myself over the last week.  Quite unexpectedly, my body broke.  I've therefore had to practice being nice to it.

Many of you know that I am a wayfarer for self-care, for being gentle to one's soul, for quieting that nasty inner-judge.  Though I've grown in this area, I never really had to apply the theory to my physical-self.  I still hear unhealthy voices speaking badly about my body and have always ALWAYS struggled to combine the body-mind (to borrow yoga phraseology) and live holistically.  I've often described my head as my biggest muscle and I still value living cerebrally over athletically.  I continually feel surprised when I see my reflection - thinking that my soul and my body look nothing alike, are shockingly incongruous.  I would like to strike a more soulful balance regarding this.

One way I work on this is in self-portraits, taking photos not just of the parts I like, and not overly-focusing on the parts I dislike...but just letting a picture be a picture.  Letting Candace be Candace for all her guts and glory.

My body decided to give me this chance.  After I took two horrific falls while rollerskating a few weeks back, I had to gingerly tip-toe around my bruised tail-bone.  Once that cleared up, however, my neck decided it was its turn to scream for attention.  I have never experienced pain like that in my life, and the spasms kept me not only from work and sleep, but also from entertaining any other thoughts than figuring out how to alleviate the pain.  Oh, and I also had (have) a lingering chest/head cold.

Oh wicked Thursday. I had planned an entire day for myself complete with leisurely morning, fabulous lunch date, movie, evening alone. I still did all of these things, but dears, today I did them with the heavy burden of my life-long friend, Insecurity.

She woke up with me and said some unkind words. These words they hurt my feelings.

Perfect. Now my own feelings are hurting my feelings.

The saint had his weekly brewther's night at his parents, so I have from 8am until 10pm alone. I decided to execute the plan even though I felt like crawling into a bottle of french red wine for the next 12 hours. What else could woo my woundedness out of my being like a luxurious day out? Also, it was freaking gorgeous here today and my new dress needed walking.

But I couldn't ditch her. Every time I turned a beautiful downtown corner, she was there. Every time I ran ahead and thought I had lost her, there she was. Every time I took a sip of champagne, she stared at me blankly from across the table.


By all definition, I had a fabulous day. Correction: I DID a fabulous day. I donned my strapless dress (don't tell joel, he hates them) and tennis shoes, plugged in my Depeche Mode, and sauntered out to a new-to-me French bistro downtown. I sat outside after braving the "table for one?" question THREE times (the hostess/water girl/server) during the lunch rush, and enjoyed every second of it. Champagne? Yes. Baguette? But of course. Artichoke lentil soup? Naturally. Profiteroles? I suppose I must. Espresso? Well, shoot.

I then wandered around the market with my film SLR and shot away...and in that small vacuum of time, I forgot that it had a nasty little bite in my heart that kept scratching.

I wandered up Pike to see a chic-flick. I was the ONLY one in the theatre. Typically I would find this funny and a bit ironic, but not today. I needed not to be alone there...apparently the gods heard and sent in two girls to sit behind me and watch my back against theater rapists. Because they totally exist. I got my girl-fix of tears and headed home in the breezy late-afternoon.

Two chili-cheese corn dogs later (sigh), I am sitting here with a long night ahead of me and wondering how much money I will have to spend to pamper myself out of this insecurity and actually FEEL pampered today.

And that's the thing. I should seriously know better than to avoid my soul like that. After I scrubbed the kitchen without even knowing it, I realize that I was thinking about a very long time ago in grade school when I was ditched by everyone (don't feel pity for me, I did it right back), and then even further back to a big man getting in his car and driving down the street. And these are the scenes that replay when I turn to face my insecurity. They hurt a bit too much. This is why I usually ignore it, deny it a voice, abuse it, etc.

What's the alternative? I could continue doing this and live with the guilt of my reaction to it, which is to say, think, or do something wicked to someone else whenever I feel insecure...so as to restore the balance. I'm not great at that first strike, but I can strike back with cobra-like vehemence. However, I am really, really tired of making a smeary, toxic muck of people I love and convincing myself that it was their own misunderstanding.

I would like to be that femme fatal who turns around, runs towards her predator with double-fisted guns blazing, and looks really hot in a muddy tank top and shorts in the process.

Unfortunately, I am the chubby little 2-year old with tear-stained red cheeks who is left behind and who never wants to feel that way again. But it is becoming apparent from the scratches left behind by my soul that I must turn around and find courage to face it. Though I cannot take big girl steps and look fabulous doing it, I can take steps the size of a child.

Okay. At the risk of sounding like Delilah here, I truly do wonder how other people find solace, true comfort for themselves. Me? I am pretty good at it. Hell, I've made an art form of it, and I am proud to say I am actually doing it for a living.

There is comfort everywhere.
In the smell of her leather interior.
In the heated chamomile and lavender rice bag,
In the shadows from the soft kitchen light.

There is comfort in the sweet smell of his neck,
In pancakes and pina coladas,
In the sighs of relief heard across the city,
In the gifts of letters in your mailbox,
In three pitchers and dominoes,

But I didn't know that last bit until it was almost stripped from me.

I have to tell you, I fancy myself quite independent. I am surprised when I miss someone, even more shocked if I feel like I need them to help me, and damn-well stunned if I feel comforted by them. By them, I mean females.

Female relationships have always been tricky - and funnily enough - this is true of all the females I know. But in the last three or four years, something amazing has been forming in my life. There is a group of women here around me that most women dream of. It is almost movie material: funny, fashionable, soulful, artistic, witty, caring, fabulous, not-perfect, complicated, and above all - one big bubble of SUPPORT.

The last two weeks, Joel and I have been pondering relocating across the country. His work was terminating his position unless we moved to Florida, and we were actually considering it...for the spirit of adventure, in the name of courage. That was the first week.

The second week, I lost my breath. I lost my tranquility. I would have lost them.

I had no idea I was attached. I had no idea I felt insecure about my role, I had no idea that I relied on them more than just for fun, sex talk, or boozy brunches. What a gross oversight on my part. You have to wonder how things will change when you move. You start to play games with yourself, listening to lies of "you're not that important to them," "they will be glad to have a break from your complexities..." etc.

Alas. Insecurity...I have always approached it with the understanding that it was ME. I was responsible for my own security and no one else was to be put upon to assure me of their attachment. If I felt insecure, it was my own problem. But through this whole process and a few pretty amazing, honest conversations, I see that I can express insecurities without demanding assurances.

The anxiety of the last two weeks is still poisoning my bones, despite feeling it slowly slipping down the drain with each hot bath. But this time, I didn't do it alone. I didn't put the whole burden, this great pressure, of comforting myself solely upon my shoulders. Dears, how I find celebratory clinks in this small step towards connection and dependence.

I have also discovered the next step of recovering my small child inside - allowing her to be insecure. It repels my being, it turns my stomach with weakness and disgust, but I know it's next. Despite my dread, I find small courage in one thought: