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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