It's an odd feeling to watch one part of your life soar beyond expectations and the other part of your life go down the toilet. It's odd because you realize how well they balance each other out. You can't be happy about the good or devastated by the bad. You're just sort of there while it all happens.
These past six or so months have been hard. I'm not sleeping. I'm not eating well. And whenever I tell myself, "Self, you can't keep doing what you're doing. Something's got to give," I'm met with all this hostility. Like I'm angry with myself for having limitations. Like I'd spit in my own face if I could.
I thought I had gotten rid of that part of myself, the part that always shows up to kick me in the proverbial gonads whenever something bad happens. For the past couple of years, ever since I realized just how cruel that dark passenger could be, I've made a conscious effort to be kind to myself. Or as my therapist put it, to not say anything to me that I wouldn't let someone say to a close friend.
And yet, here I am, cowering down inside of myself, afraid to say things like "I'm tired" or "it's OK" or "I know things are bad, but I should work through them anyway" because I know that when I do, that other side of myself will zoom in like the Tazmanian devil, spouting off all these things about how I'm stupid and ugly and worthless and nothing will ever be right again because the common denominator in all of them is me, and I always find a way to screw things up.
So mostly I just don't do anything. And then I feel stressed because I should be doing something. And then I feel guilty because I should have done something months ago but didn't, and now I don't even know where to start or how to apologize or any of that stuff.
So I do more of nothing, and the cycle starts all over again.
Things will get better, though. They always do. I just have to wait for the storm to pass, is all.
No comments:
Post a Comment