to be happier
The last time I felt heartbroken--the first time I ever fully
understood the weight of that emotion--I ran away. It was halfway through my
bout of unemployment, and less than two weeks before I faced losing yet another
mentor to sudden death. The latter two situations are the kind I face with
resilience. The former...not so much.
The night before, I washed all
my sheets & blankets, deep-cleaned my kitchen, and vacuumed every
square-inch of the apartment I no longer rent--even the return vents. I called
a few friends and cried into the glass I stole from a bar in Madison on a
different run-away occasion. When I told my then therapist about stealing it,
she reminded me of the negative consequences of my compulsive actions. I use
the glass when I need a reminder.
The morning after my attempt to
compulsively clean and cry and call, I compulsively packed in 27 minutes (a new
record) for what I planned to be a week-long trip--to a place I hadn't yet
decided. I spent the following 10 hours taking scenic detours on the same
stretch of I-80 I've driven dozens of times before. I barely ate that day, and
I drank copious amounts of Mountain Dew. When I arrived at my mom's, everybody
pretended that a random surprise from me was "normal," that my ask of
where my mom leaves certain glass bottles was "normal," that my
duffel bag (haphazardly packed) and Target sack of unopened snacks was
"normal."
I crashed that night, hard. I
woke up a few times with tears in my eyes, and I wasn't sure if it was from my
sadness or the nightmares that never stop. The next few weeks were filled with
more spontaneous driving. I managed to turn a lunch-date with my best friend
into a day-trip to South Dakota. It was my first visit. I saw Mt. Rushmore and
pondered how a group of people could devote their lives to blowing up rocks to
memorialize someone else.
I visited an old friend and
went to a party I didn't belong at, and I panicked when I realized that I left
behind the only possession I care about at her place. I saw the man who hurt--and
continues to hurt--my mom and siblings and I, and he saw me. It took every
remaining ounce of sanity to not crash my car into his, to hurt him like he
will forever hurt us. I sat in a cemetery, talking to the headstone that
belongs to someone I don't even remember, while I waved at a stranger (who
likely knows my family somehow) plowing the neighboring field. I attempted to
visit my gran, and I reported her living situation to dependent adult abuse.
That was one of the most difficult calls I've ever made. Then I returned to my
mom's.
The first night of my run-away
adventure was also the night of Des Moines' major flash flood. I had family
members from far-away states checking on me, asking if I was affected. My
apartment was safe, and I was out of town, so I said no.
It was during this spontaneous
bout of maxing out credit cards and emptying most of my checking account that
my forty-second job application of the summer landed me an interview. At that
time, I was back home in my college town. I had asked those I considered
closest to me at the time for life advice. One of my friends found me in her
kitchen, late-afternoon, with more than a few drinks in my system.
"My heart was already
broken, and this morning I found out that a friend died," I stated to her
and a friend she'd brought home after work. I made a difficult call that night,
asking someone to make a choice about where we stood, and I ended it with,
"Well then I have to go."
Then I went back, roughly 36
hours later, with a short message I sent from a stool in a bar I frequented. I
stopped going there when a man, about 60-years-old, took my picture and asked
for my phone number. Remember the abusive guy mentioned above? That's the
number he received; I hope they had a great talk. The short message I sent was
from a place of wanting something rather than nothing. I know, I make plenty of
spontaneous choices with less than good judgment, but that one is not on that
list.
In the roughly four months
following, I grew to care about that person more than I planned. I don't want
to say "more than anyone else before" because that cliché is
overused. However, I cared in ways I didn't know existed. I would bet $20 that
I could win one of those TV game shows about knowing someone's favorite things
if given the chance. I would also bet that they could do the same.
But hypothetical bets on
unrealistic situations can't change the fact that I'm sitting at the same desk
I wrote them love letters via journal entries, secret blog posts, and emails.
They don't change the fact that I want to run away again, but this time much
further and without a plan to come back. They don't change the fact that I've
reached out to people I haven't talked to in months simply because I know that
they are aware of how I act and what to do with that.
What has changed, however, is
that I'm taking care of myself because I know I have no right to be angry at
another human for doing what's best for them when I could just do the same for
myself.
Rather than pushing my
feverish, sick self through strenuous work the last two days (note: I did
really try yesterday, and then struggled to drive home), I stayed in bed. In
the last 48 hours, I slept about 29...which is about what I average in five
nights. I avoided excessive amounts of sugar, despite craving them, to avoid
more anxiety symptoms and attacks.
In the last week, I've caught
up with friends I've distanced myself from due to our schedules rarely
aligning. I've had difficult conversations I've avoided for months. I've
organized my physical life--student loans, bank accounts, mountains of old
mail, piles of laundry. I've confided in trusted friends about where I'm at
emotionally.
That last piece is what's key.
It's how I know that I'll be okay, and that I'm allowed to be a mess while working
on myself. Today I made a call to a new therapy office to request more
information about becoming a patient. I made the decision to do so last night,
and I asked a friend to hold me accountable. She did, and I did, too.
Those who have known me for a
long time know how big of a step that is. Alas, those who have read until this
point probably have a decent idea as well. Why? Because for once, I didn't run
away. I didn't make risky decisions or follow down my past self-harm paths. I
didn't act out for new ways of attention.
I made the decision to keep
caring--for myself.
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