This week in The Rebellion Journals – In Search of... humanity, art, peace, kindness, equality, CLEAN, delicious food, the best matcha, flea market finds, plus the relentless push to bring FRESH KILLS to audiences everywhere and find inspiration to keep going through this hellscape we currently find ourselves in.
Here’s what I found—
A nervous system. A calm one. Well…
at least one that’s starting to breathe a little. I didn’t even know I had this gear. You know the one that doesn’t wake you in the middle of the night with racing thoughts about everything from, “How many pages did you write today?” to “How do I stop the world from burning?” to singing the theme song from The Love Boat over and over with zero idea of how you even know the words. Then spend the day running on the big wheel of capitalism and all the other “isms” out there, only to finally go to bed and do it all over again.
Here, in Paris, I’ve been on their time and inside their universe. And I’ll tell you one huge find—life is far kinder here. You actually get to have one. You’re actually expected to have one.
The place I just started writing at every day makes you shut your computers at 6 p.m., and just try to send any kind of business email on the weekends—maybe you’ll get an answer the Tuesday after. I’ve spoken about the café culture here in my prior journal entries, but it’s the lingering that they do, for hours, that amazes me. They linger on street corners with wine, in front of the Seine, in cafés, in coffee houses, in parks—everywhere humanly possible to sit, chat, smoke, chill, and even nap—they do it. And I’ve watched in awe. No phones, just chatting, picnicking, resting, being, and conversing.
I became determined to do the same. Seems easy enough, right? Well...
Yes, right after I manage the waves of grief from leaving the only home I’ve ever known and not knowing the language of where I currently find myself. That, plus the hourly existential crises that cascade into complete shutdown or into a genuine moment of gratitude for being able to be here on this journey at all. Not to mention the endless streets I want to walk down and explore, but the nagging voice that relentlessly keeps telling me I’m not writing enough, getting enough done, which turns into doubt as to why I would keep trying at all when getting any project over the line is set up to drain you for even trying.
See? My nervous system is taking over this very journal now. To that I must say, “NOT NOW, LADY. WE ARE TALKING ABOUT HOW PEACEFUL YOU’VE BECOME, DAMN IT!”
Okay, I’m back.
But this has been me. Fight-or-flight mode from the jump. Born this way or made this way. As I say on my intro page, it’s not something I chose to be—it’s something that came out of necessity. I think we can all relate on some level to the fact that the struggle to survive in America is A LOT, especially now. And that’s just to live. And it doesn’t help being an empath and having enormous issues with injustice. So, yeah, that’s probably going to be a problem for me... until.. the end of time.
However, this week I came across something that stopped me in my tracks. It was the first explanation on this topic that I’ve ever read that made sense to me. For the first time, it made me understand why injustices literally derail me, make me want to fight, or completely leave civilization and isolate. Oh, and I isolate so, so well.
It’s something called Justice Sensitivity. It was described in a post by Dr. Geethika Pillai, a psychologist with training in neuropsychology, who said that the body literally starts shutting down when it’s not able to rationalize, digest, and “problem solve” injustice. This is especially true for ADHD, autistic, and neurodivergent people. I guess I can add those to my list of wonderful attributes. She said this goes far beyond just being empathetic. That it actually stems from situations like these: “When someone says one thing and does another, or a promise is broken, or rules suddenly change, or when someone gets away with something everyone else would be punished for. It’s a reaction to what she called a violation of consistency.”
I need to say that again—A VIOLATION OF CONSISTENCY.
That just hits for me in more ways than I can ever explain here. She had just explained my entire life. I’ve NEVER had any solid footing underneath my feet. Not in childhood, not in my chosen career, not in almost all relationships, not in health—nowhere. It’s that underlying nagging presence of that one false move, and the rug would be pulled out from under you. And I know life isn’t ever predictable. BUT we are sold “truths.” Truths about people, places, things, and institutions, along with great “slogans” that lead us to believe that if... X, Y, and Z are done, obeyed, or achieved, then you’d win the thing. That A + B will get you to C. Not so.
The post goes on to say, “The goal isn’t to care less. It’s to suffer less while still caring.”
Yes, easier said than done, but this explanation alone has brought my brain, which needs to understand WHY—ALL THE TIME—some real peace.
Peace in realizing I’m not reacting only to injustice. I’m reacting to inconsistency.
And for me, that is an enormous trigger.
And herein lies what I’ve found this week. The reason it’s been so hard to just sit and linger with my new neighbors here in Paris—a nervous system that didn’t understand how to stop being triggered. The part of me that has had to walk into rooms since I was a child, decoding who I needed to be to keep everything calm, agreeable, and safe.
And with that very understanding of that WHY, my body was able to exhale a little more. Understanding didn’t solve it. But it softened it.
So I sat.
Once with just my pup, Goose, on the Seine. We watched morning walkers, runners, and a bird that decided to land on the head of a beautiful monument. It was lovely. Just to sit and be still.
I spotted a man sitting across from me on the Seine. It was early. He sat there alone, sitting upright. His blue hoodie covered his entire head as though he was completely hidden from the world. His hands even hiding in his sweatshirts pockets. He was still. Really still until I saw his slight movements that made me know he wasn’t asleep. At one point I thought he was looking back, but I couldn’t tell. I could feel he’d had better days from across the river. I watched him for what seemed like 30 minutes until Goose wanted to move on.
Later that week, I lingered with some women I met here in Paris on the same search. We sat by the water among the locals, this time with wine and some food. It felt nice to not just be observing life here but actually taking part in living it.
I did go back to the Seine a few days later and found myself looking for that man in the hood. He wasn’t there. I’m not sure what I was looking to find. Maybe it’s the empath in me, wanting to see if he was okay. Or maybe it was just my need for something consistent.
The only thing I know is consistent for me is that I’ll never not care about the world and the people around me. It’s what fuels my extremely deep need and desire to tell stories. Stories about us, the empaths, the weirdos, the hurting, the humans, and the ones hiding from the world underneath their hoodies on the Seine.
In Search Of….
No posts
Comments
Nothing yet. Say the first thing.
Sign in to join the conversation.