Anorexic. Addict. Bulimic. Bipolar. Crazy. Depressed.
You can go through the whole alphabet and probably find some manifestation of that inner turmoil we all feel at some point in our lives. We get a bit of sadness, feel a bit of imbalance, and either have the self-awareness to fix it on the spot, or let it evolve into some dauntingly vast chakra chasm where all your life goals, relationships, and simple maintenance tasks like taking a daily shower or brushing your teeth go to die. It doesn’t take crack or Jack ‘n coke to get there. For me, it’s also shown up with food issues, manic highs, immobilizing lows, and avoidance altogether of life – in favor for a day under a fleece blanket, questioning existence.
Anything to put a label on the sadness and say “I’m the only one going through this.”
Right? Isn’t that what anyone who complains without reaching out feels?
Like they’re the only tree in the global orchard whose branches comprise nada but problems?
I’m so guilty of this. I admit it occasionally (like now), but most days, it runs denial deep. Among these little offshoots of my self induced misery tree, there’s one I didn’t even realize I’ve been watering loyally for a long time now until more recently: anger. Because I’m trying my best to deal with life on its own terms and not work myself into a tizzy over that which can’t be helped, sometimes the things I get angry about end up in a denial filing cabinet.
It’s said when we’re sad or pissed off that we should reach out to a friend or someone who “gets us”. But there’s always a bit of me that says “Come off it.” Or “Grow up” or “what could they POSSIBLY tell me that’ll make me feel any better? I don’t wanna hear spiritual reminders right now. It’s bullshit!”
I’m half right and half wrong about my instincts.
Yes, I need to move along and act like the adult I am in name only. And no, the person on the other line won’t likely be waiting on some ashram pillow to issue life advice and thus probably also won’t have a panacea at the ready for me in fortune cookie form. Most days, I’d be Fort Knox style closed to some mystical answer anyway. But sometimes, just the act of talking to someone can remind us – not that, but how – we’re not alone when we’re wading through shit mist we’ve made up in our brains. It takes all of 30 seconds for something like a tight muscle in my body to morph into me ordering an EXIT bag and Swiss tickets – if I’m thinking it through in isolation.
If I talk it over with someone, I usually learn something.
Even if that “something” is just the fact that even plastic breaks if you’re angry enough:
“What happened here?”
“It fell.”
“It fell?”
“It fell against the wall…”
.__.
“…It fell against the wall traveling at terminal velocity.”
._____.
And if you find the right person to talk feelings with over tea, they’ll even play saucer Frisbee with you as a plan B – should things get too boring. Like they say – better to do it in company than alone. And a real friend won’t let you chuck china alone. It could be dish pitching or spitballing solutions together. But magic bullet words or not, I usually leave a convo that started with “life sucks”, able to suck it up better. Slapped back into reality.
Because it’s not always the advice bullet that resolves the issue.
Sometimes it’s just seeing the gun holding it that pistol whips us outta solipsistic pain.
Which is all those –ism, -olic, and -mania type labels we stick on our chests really stand for.
#letsthrowdishestogether