When you get out to your car, preparing to head off for an appointment for which you’re already late, and notice your gas tank is almost empty.
Then remember that, the other day, you hit a post outside a sketchy supermarket and there’s a big crushed area on your back bumper.
Your therapist thinks you’re going to commit suicide.
You can’t, for the life of you, decide where you want to live or what you want to do for a living or who you ARE.
You spend way too much of your time thinking about other people—for the good and the bad—and losing track of yourself.
You thought your boyfriend wanted to break up with you, then found out he’s been overwhelmed & stressed, totally unaware of what’s been running through your head.
You have spent the past several days in the deepest funk you’ve experienced since high school, when you tried to suffocate yourself.
Every time you think you’ve found a new place to live, you come up with at least two dozen reasons why you shouldn’t move at all.
You’re trying to plan three separate trips at the same time.
You miss your best friends like crazy. One of them is having her first baby in June. You are 700+ miles away.
There’s a huge dollop of bird shit on your windshield, smack in the middle of your line of sight.
Your bar trivia team got 4th place out of 4 teams in last night’s competition, and you kicked yourself all night for providing a wrong answer that lost you 6 points. All night. 6 points. BAR TRIVIA.
You made your therapist laugh when you told her you fear picking restaurants and movies when out with others because you feel solely responsible for the outcome and the well being of your companions. Will you ruin their lives if you take them to a bad pizza place? MAYBE.
You’re getting up a few minutes later every morning until, this morning, you got up at 7:10, giving yourself 50 minutes to get ready and get to the office. It usually takes you 90 minutes to accomplish this. You did not make it on time (though you were only 10 minutes late).
You haven’t done laundry in about three weeks and the only pair of clean underwear remaining in your closet is a striped thong. Your only thong. There’s a reason you own only one thong.
You’re drinking a soda with the word PHENYLKETONURICS on the label. You theorize that this means your insides are rotting more and more with each sip. You’re probably right.
You realized today that your mom made you totally anal about money, and until you realize that there’s a gray area between miserly hoarding and 10 maxed-out credit cards, you’re never going to be happy.
And you have to laugh.
Because, really, what else are you going to do? Once you’ve reached the end of that list and tacked on a few footnotes of crazy, the only option that remains is to smirk, then smile, then tilt your head back and guffaw. Not like a crazy person, really, though you may be perceived as such. But as a person who is learning to let go of the unmanageable weight on her mind/shoulders.
I’m about to call the doctor and set up an appointment to talk about medication. I think the cloud that’s been hanging over me this week is lifting, which says I’m healing faster than I did in high school and college. Friends help. So do siblings. Boyfriends and parents too. Thanks guys.