Creating a Plan B

Today I start working towards a plan B. It seems that plan B’s of a variety of sorts have found their way into my brain and tinkered around for a bit, but then they go as many good ideas do: they disappear to some place of fixed, fearful, excuse making existence which I will not refer to as life as it is seemingly the wedged space where life goes to die. It all came to the surface during a much needed trauma stewardship training today (http://traumastewardship.com/who-we-are/laura-van-dernoot-lipsky/) that I need a plan B. I have convinced myself otherwise for some years up to now making a multitude of excuses as to why all my alternate plans won’t/can’t/shouldn’t happen or even be considered. But just the absence of my plan B has made me one miserable gal. That changes here. Today the plan is to write. I love to write and yet I don’t do it; I avoid it actually. I talk about it and the talking about it creates anxiety because I never get past the talking to the writing.  I was once very creative. I made things, fun things, all the time. It occurred to me today that I have acquired some zombie-like characteristics that have slowly crept their way over me in the past few years. I mean I really did think that working all the time with people who were in major crisis and experiencing major trauma was rolling off my back smoothly and without stagnation. Not so much. Don't get me wrong, I have had my fair share of health issues and an abundance of stress symptoms, but I didn't connect those things with my work, but instead I blamed it on the layered trauma I have experienced in my own personal life. I have gotten to the point of being tired, distant, non-communicative and less productive and without a plan B for far too long. I have been stuck and it has felt bad, very, very bad.  So here I attempt to unstick myself and take my life back and create an out, an option and a new idea: a choice. So I write. I am not sure what the content of this writing will be. This plan B is new and I just wanted to embark on it and take action while the energy was right and the fire was right in my belly. Telling you, whoever you are, is a commitment, a sort of insurance policy for my plan B. Feel free to cash it in and remind me that I am cooking myself in a non-oiled metal pan if I somehow re-adhere myself into my work without an exit strategy. Thank you for humoring my plan B, my friends. My future, less zombie-like self, thanks you too.