66 Days of Celibacy in 42 Minutes
Findings
I stayed off the apps for a full 70 days. I could have waited longer, but something happened that amped my need for distraction. The same thing that stopped me at 66.
The Universe handed me a two-sided coin. I took a gamble. It ended the same way it always does: tails you lose. But what a treasure trove of raw material my interactions with this particular coin do proffer. I always say it’s worth it. Maybe next time will be the last time.
At first, I felt guilty, like I’d let everyone down by bailing before I hit 90. Make sure you have friends that say things like this to you in downtrodden moments: “Hey. You’re allowed to amend the experiment. Making a calibration in the middle is NOT a failure.” Boom. Permission slip granted. I felt born again. (Thank you, Lexi girl).
Here’s what happened in that six-by-eleven snapshot of time.
I came back to a version of myself truer than the one I had when I set out on the mission.
When I stopped pouring fuel into beat-up-banana-flavored pintos that would never take me anywhere,
I was able to reallocate those resources to my business, my creativity, my kids, my body, my pleasure, my interests, my research. I could be wholly invested in the substrata of each of these life layers because my mind wasn’t busy constructing hallucinatory underworlds where I was crowned empress of Banana Hammock Hellfiredom.
It was liberating to realize I had this kind of power. To simply unplug a cable from one wall socket and plug it back into myself.
When I let go of the brandished illusion with which my life thus far had been spun: that a man was going to save me, support me, give my life meaning, I was forced to become sole provider of all things. I was forced to become my own PowerStation. I was forced back to myself for answers. And came to trust myself to have them.
During this time, I also began to notice, with drippy ick, my “little girl energy.” The whiny voice that needed constant affirmation and validation. The tinny pretender that needed to be stroked and coddled to function, ineffectively, at best. And while I can’t say she’s altogether blotted, she’s no longer allowed to run the show. Instead of retreating to the blurred edge of her familiar meadow, I pushed myself out into the wilderness with a compass I’m still learning how to use, a coffee maker, and a pocket marsupial who can only telepath “mustn’t grumble” in his best Liverpudlian, in acute moments of hysteria.
There’s more, but I only had 42 minutes. I make a habit of punching out at 6 on the dot.
Here’s my advice for anyone out there wanting to step into truer versions of themselves:
Interrogate (bring your addiction/unhealthy obsession/escapologist into a frigid backroom, shine a spotlight in her eyes, and ask her all the questions you don’t think you want the answers to. Hit record on the tapedeck and Sit Shiva with her silence. Eventually, she’ll cave.)
Investigate (search for clues in the back-alleys of your behavior. Notice when you feel the gun cocked behind your head and reach for the screen, the glass, the pill bottle. What happens right before? How do you feel after? What are the stories you’re telling yourself about how your life has to look? Submit each story to your litmus test/editor. See who makes the cut).
Take Notes (you’ll want to skip this step. Don’t. Journal in the mornings. Journal in the evenings. Journal all over this land. Take tiny moleskin flipbooks with you to the grocery store. This shit is important. You’ll want to look back one day. Maybe in 66, and remember how far you’ve come. This practice releases motivational dopamine into the brain. It will fuel you on to further investigate stick points.
I love you. You are phenomenal. Now, get out there and build your kingdom, Queen.
Love always,
Rosie