What This World is About

It’s mind-boggling that neither of these singers are alive anymore. Totally mind-boggling. It’s one of the terrors of knowing what this world is about. Yet, it doesn’t have to feel this way; the constant pressure. It’s hard not to feel this way, especially right now. I tend to add things to an overflowing plate, a towering Jenga board, and I joke but not joke about what would topple it over. Another job? Maybe. Depends on how invested I am, and what the feedback is to the work I do or have done. Another baby? For sure. Another cat? Probably. Even though they’re so easy compared to dogs and babies. See, that’s the thing. We have our own versions of which Jenga piece would be the one to topple us over. I’m learning my way through the differences between stress and anxiety, and how I shouldn’t treat them the same. I also am learning that I don’t have to feel either of them the way I’ve been feeling them. Another piece that topples me over. Gone.

You don’t just start therapy going all in, no matter how desperate you are to feel better. And you never start therapy just to twiddle your thumbs on billable time either. You build up to what you’re building up to – and that varies. Oddly, going deep into trauma and all of its components and snowballing effects, isn’t like adding Jenga pieces to an already toppling pile. It’s sort of the opposite. Maybe you’re adding cushioning and strategy to a toppling pile. It’s steadying. And it’s stabilizing. It’s painful and joyous. I had to list all of the worst things that have ever happened to me, and give them numbers on a scale of 1 to 10. Then I had to list all of the best things that ever happened to me. It’s amazing and resilient to be able to name the best things, through all of the worst things, especially when the worst things happened so early. The biggest and worst thing, actually. I’m thinking about that now. Resilience. The rise and fall. The mental pounding and the peace. The dark drive home and the chaos waiting for me at home. I LOVE/HATE it.

It’s the dog whining loudly to come back in, after she had just gone out. It’s a trigger here and a trigger there. The time of year. The way things don’t hurt as much as they used to, but other things do. Maybe not as much, though. I’m not numb and I don’t care less, but things don’t hurt the way they used to. Maybe it’s the self-help books and the therapists. The Early Intervention and the dental scraping. Sitting inside my pile of fabulous catalogs and magazines and books to read; notes to write – to myself. To my family members. It’s the way she picks out clothes for me, but this week I had to postpone one of her outfits until the next day, because I was too cranky to wear something cute! Funny, no? Maybe there’s a peace in doing what you can, when you can.

I’m having a sick day today; a properly sick day. And of course it’s hard to settle down and rest. It’s not just work, or the pressure I put on myself, but am taking off myself, to make these perfect Friday posts every time. It’s like my sick day pajamas. Is this a perfect outfit today?

It’s perfectly imperfect and the day should be as well. Maybe I’ll get dressed. Maybe I’ll get off the couch, for a dog or a toddler diaper. I’ll probably make lunch and film an assignment for work. Sawyer’s occupational therapists will come over to begin his process of learning to walk, assuming my disclosure of laryngitis doesn’t scare them away. Maybe Cassidy will make hot water with lemon and honey again. Lucy will cuddle with me, and anything I wear (nice clothes or pajamas) will be covered in her fur anyway. Maybe I’ll alleviate some pressure, a little at a time. I can’t take it all away. Not on a global scale, certainly, and not even on a personal level. It’s a start, though. Somehow the sick day is situated right where it needs to be – after my hell week and before Thanksgiving week. It’s this in-between week; this time, of rest and help and chaos and cuddles. Maybe I’ll just sit back with Rider right now and close my eyes… just a little to start.