So here’s the deal…
I’m not funny right now. I’m sad. I’m exhausted. I’m overwhelmed. I’m fucking furious. I’m using literally every iota of energy in my body to not answer truthfully when the UPS guy asks how I’m doing. When I should be figuring out what city to live in, what job to find, how to emotionally and logistically recover from this gut wrenching betrayal, instead I’m having to set bite size life goals for myself:
Last Week: Get out of bed every single day.
This Week: Get back to a workout routine.
Next Week: Make it through an entire yoga class without crying.
And yet the pressure to whip up something witty and endearing for this blog is suffocating me. I’m a one trick pony you guys- I’m good at writing one thing- the truth. So when I can’t tell my truth, I don’t write. I hide. I pout. I drown. I congratulate myself for mastering the silent sob so that that the sweet woman on the mat next to me isn’t disturbed by the tears that are pooling on my mat during downward facing dog. I do things like go into job interviews and promisepromisepromise myself that I will not use the phrase “cry under my desk” and then accidentally end up word vomiting about how going back into teaching right now would feel like an excuse to hide from the emotional work that I need to do and that thanks, but no thanks, I just can’t yet.
I’m going to need you to just think of this as my Blue Period.
I’ll recover because I have to. That’s how it works. You get up, go through the motions, and eventually the hyper awareness that you are mourning not just a past but an unclaimed future calms down.
I’ll do the ugly work and one day I’ll wake up and for a few hours I’ll feel like myself again, and maybe I’ll want to write to share it with you guys, or maybe I’ll just relish a few hours of meaning it when I say “I’m good, thanks for asking. How are you?”
For those of you that like picking at scabs, this Blue Period is for you. But if you need some Sunflowers in your life, check out one of these old posts and try to remember that I don’t always sound like a series of rejected My Chemical Romance lyrics.
- That time I accidentally roofied my book club
- That other time that I wasn’t a functioning adult
- That other other time that I wasn’t a functioning adult
(Yes, I’m noticing the theme here. I’ll add it to the agenda for my therapist…)