I got whistled at the other day. In a mask, in my pajamas, in that early-morning state where you’re walking the dog and wonder am I wearing underwear? I was empirically Not Cute not that it’s ever stopped any dude before. But now they can’t scream hey baby, give me a smile! when half of my face is covered.
Last week was The Week Where It All Fell Apart. Or as the Real World used to promise Where People Stopped Being Polite, And Started Getting Real.
It had been creeping up in my peripheral vision, tickling at the edges where I knew it was out there but I was helpless to stop it. So I pressed on. I had work to do. Drafts to turn in, outlines to write, notes to make and milestones required for a paycheck to be received.
But, well…it wasn’t going great.
I always think about how much work I could get done if I could skip this step. But I can’t skip this step because this is the first step to writing anything.
Normally I can pull myself out of the tailspin. I love my brain, because my brain will find me a way out of it. However, my brain is also the one that gets me into it. There are no winners in global thermonuclear war. We just keep running the script until I win or I explode. I always win.
Until last week.
I have been told that I am not an easy person to love. I am an easy person to fall in love with, but the business of loving, well, that’s another thing entirely. I once asked my therapist why it took so long for me to have a breakdown and she said you’re so smart that even to your own detriment, you have figured out a way around your own operating system.
Ooooh, thank you, I replied.
It’s not a good thing, she said.
I was just concentrating on the smart part.
Children learn to self-soothe, but I am so good at self-soothing that I don’t know any other way to be. I can take care of other people, but I don’t let other people take care of me. That requires vulnerability.
Robots aren’t vulnerable.
Sometimes, though, sometimes I send out a flare. It’s always wrapped in a joke so I can laugh it off later, pretend it was no big deal.
It’s fine. I’m fine.
One day I’ll choke on the words I’m fine.
I wasn’t fine, but I didn’t know how to be not fine, so I spun out and stared at my screen and typed words on a keyboard that I knew I’d erase. Over and over and over and over. Eventually I knew my brain would reboot and get to the place where it needed to be because that’s what I do. I’ve never missed a deadline.
I’m fine.
I tried to go back to work when I got a text message:
Are you okay?
This is the place where I laugh it off, because laughing it off is what I always do. But that is what I always do is the thing that landed me in therapy. That is the reason I blew up my life. That is why there is the before, and the after.
I’m not okay, I responded.
Can I call you? he asked.
I am…not pretty, I replied. (Because “not pretty” was the worst thing I could think of to be.)
I don’t care. I’d like to call, if you’re okay with it.
I’m okay with it.
He asked me if I had drank any water.
Could I get some water and drink it?
He asked me if I had been outside.
Could I go outside, if I felt comfortable?
He asked me if I could close my eyes.
Could I do some breathing exercises, if he led me through them?
Ten minutes later, I opened my eyes and started to cry. Not because I was sad, but from sheer relief. Because when you’ve been a robot for this long, you’re convinced that no one will see you any other way.
But for the first time in forever, someone saw through my jokey bullshit and didn’t run. Or tell me I saw wrong. Or that I was overreacting. Instead, they said I’m here. It’s okay. Let me help.
I know that some people will never understand the decisions I’ve made. But I blew up my life because I was doing to die if I didn’t. And in the rubble, I found a new place to call home.
PS. This above is why this happened:
I understand, so much.
I've been following the "I'm fine" jokey model most of my life too. Finally, this past October or so, my brain said "I'm done with this shit".
I am *so* fortunate to have benefits that allowed me to go on leave for months and still get my paycheque. I am just gradually returning to work.
You are not alone. I am glad you are making progress.