Breaking Point

I once wrote the words, “I write as a way of keeping my sanity.” But do I? Am I? Some days, I feel like I have my shit together. Some days, I feel like I’m on a slippery slope. After all life can throw at you, you hope that eventually, you’ll be standing strong, whole, in one piece.

This year started out great. I was feeling pretty good about things. I tend to hibernate in the winter and by spring, I’m ready to burst forth with new ideas and energy. Okay. Let me pause for a moment. Most of my life I’ve operated with a kind of “always expect the worst so anything else is a bonus” attitude. So, this power-of-positive-thinking-seize-the-day-sunny-side-up attitude is like a new outfit. I’m still getting used to it and occasionally I’m bloated and it doesn’t’ fit right.

My family had a big event coming up, which the word “big” would normally have me running to close the drapes and grab the remote. But I put on my big girl panties, like they say, bought a new dress, and psyched myself up. And I surprised myself. I was actually happy on the way to the event. As a person who is a firm believer in self-analysis and professional analysis, a person who tries every day to be a better version of myself, I’m often taken aback but what people will say and do, those who aren’t on any kind of path. I’m not judging. I’m trying not to judge; but the bullshit some people will throw at you, I mean, I’m just not prepared for it. Not going into the dirty details, but I had the wind knocked out of me, and I had a panic attack—first one in over 20 years. Of all the things that could have happened that night, what did happen, I wouldn’t have ever expected it, not in a million years. The next day, I took to my bed.

Now, we’re getting to the horror part of this blog. I experienced what I will now refer to as my “yellow wallpaper days.” I hit a breaking point. I cried harder than I have in a long time. Wallowing in my sheets and my pain, I worked myself into a migraine that lasted an entire day. And, then after about three days, I stopped. When I’d gotten it all out of my system, I began to put myself back together. I’m alive. I’m still here. There’s a reason that trope is used in horror. Whether the heroine puts herself to bed or is put to bed by oh let’s say, a seemingly caring husband, gothic or gas lighting, the gal “has the vapors,” and needs to rest.

In a recent podcast interview, I heard Michael Gervais, author of The First Rule of Mastery, speak about being on your death bed. I’m paraphrasing here. He said something like this, “What people are really saying to themselves at the end, is why did I spend so much time living for other people, doing what other people said?” He coined an acronym, FOPO. Fear of People’s Opinions. And I have to ask myself, “Why the fuck do I care so much about what other people do or think of me?”

What really is sanity? Is it putting your best face forward and appearing to have the world on a string? That's a facade. Or is it saying, “Hey, I’m human and sometimes I don’t got this but I’m going to be stronger in the end.” Rosemary did it. She put on her slippers, got out of that yellow bedroom, grabbed a knife and went forth. Okay. If you follow me, you know I’m obsessed with Rosemary’s Baby. And yes, I know that’s probably a nod to my fragile mental state. Another piece of the puzzle.

After all of the work I’ve done on myself, why do I still have stuff to work on? Do I really have any more fucks to give? I broke wide open last month. And I realized that, I’m going to be okay.  I’m alive. I’m still here. Over the years, I’ve clung to tools of the woo, as I call it, cards, stones, incense, and bones. I’m the type of person who needs something I can touch, hold on to. I’ve been letting go of some of these things as they’ve served their purpose in my life. Right before this “thing” happened, I dropped my favorite piece of amber and it split apart into pieces. As I associate amber with the solar plexus chakra and my will, the irony was not lost on me. Here was the universe making space in my life, teaching me a lesson. My will was tested, I nursed my wounds, and like Rosemary, went forth. Because, really, what’s the alternative?

I want to be the final girl in my own story.

Book recommendation

The First Rule of Mastery, Stop Worrying About What People Think of You, by Michael Gervais. (This is on my wish list and my next nonfiction read.)

My guilty pleasure

I have watched just about every episode of Love is Blind on Netflix. Unfriend me if you will. I use it to wipe the slate clean in my mind, veg out. And after watching the participants, I feel waaaay less crazy lol.

Batty forever,

Greta