As I mentioned last week, I’m seeing a therapist about my inability to experience and share emotions. I used to think I was being strong-willed by refusing to address sadness, fear, anger, guilt, etc, but I now realize that I was just bottling them up. Which always seems like a great solution until they all come pouring out at a really inopportune time. My greatest mental breakdowns have occured:
- While watching the series finale of friends on Netflix
- At Thanksgiving
- While seeing ANY Pixar movie in theaters (Omg the feels)
At my therapist’s suggestion I tried my hand at journaling earlier in the year, but it felt so isolating. I mean, of course it is. You’re writing your deepest, darkest thoughts in a super secret diary that no one is supposed to look at. But for someone who struggles with expressing themselves, hiding them in a book felt like I was ashamed of them. And I totally was.
It didn’t help me express anything, and if anything, it made me more reluctant to bring my issues into the light of day and address them. My journal was like a safe: I would lock things up in it. This blog is going to do the opposite. Maybe I’ll think of it as a bulletin board.
Of course I’ll keep the journal at hand if I ever need to bitch about work, or people I know, or say really hurtful things about my dog that I don’t want him to read when he’s all grown up, and then he has to go to his own therapist to deal with his issues.
And the therapeutic thing about airing my shit out to dry for everyone to see, is that I’m basically plugging in a giant neon sign that says: THIS IS ME. DEAL WITH IT! And then every once in awhile when I want to retreat back into my mental pillow fort and hide, I will see the sign and be reminded that it’s ok.
So I have depression. So I have anxiety that cripples me sometimes. Sometimes I twitch and tic, sometimes I have to take breaks in the middle of the work day and cry, and sometimes I can’t focus on anything longer than a three minute youtube video of cats. Other times (rarely) I’m completely, happily, normal. But I’m not going to pretend that these things don’t happen to me, that they aren’t part of me. I’m tired of being ashamed of not being normal. And you should too.
Embrace the fuckedupitude of your life.