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The first sign of returning happiness.  Did I do it?

Lately, I’ve been a pile of bones and skin and sexy chub.  I’ve been unable to get up.  A mess. A true jumble of confusing emotions and words and guilt and a heart that has finally started again.  No need to worry.  I spoke with my therapist about it and reached out to some close friends and took care of my self the best I could…but it was scary there for a bit.  All I could do was lay on the ground and cry and try to get my shit together when anyone would call.  I have a feeling more of you than are willing to admit have been through something similar.

My Tower.

In tarot, the tower is the most world-changing card that you can pull.  The story is that the fool is walking and sees the tower crumble. It’s on fire, it’s falling down, people are jumping out of it and shit.  Which is awful anyway.  But the kicker is that the fool is double-hurt by this situation because he helped build that tower.  The tower was built by him, his father, his father’s father.  That tower had been a cornerstone of his life. And there it was, crumbling in front of his eyes.   It sounds super shitty, and believe me, it is.  But in tarot, they say that no card is good or bad, it’s both or it’s neither.  In order for things to change and grow, at some point, you’ve got to break down the old.  Whether it’s your vision of what the world should be like, or who you thought you were, or where you thought you were going —- sometimes you need to clear that shit out and make room for what’s coming.  



That’s what happened for me. Here I was, popping along, with this feeling that something just ain’t quite right, but trucking on anyway — being the person I thought I was.  And turns out, that’s not me.  I mean, I’m me, but without boring you with the details, I realized that I’m not half as emotionally void as I thought I was.  I also realized that I have some residual shit from…well….from life.  From past experiences.  From people.  From living.  



So there I was, unable to get up.  Unable to do anything but cry every 4 hours and debate various ways to avoid my feelings.  But, I’m lucky, I have friends who texted me to get the fuck out of bed.  I have a sister who called and talked my ear off about how we, as a family of women, are strong, and loud, and terrifyingly beautiful — and how I can’t help who I am or what I’ve done, and I shouldn’t make excuses for it.  I have a best friend who called every day after work, even just to laugh about people picking their noses in traffic. And, because I’m a stubborn dickface, none of that even sparked me off of the floor.  

Here’s what happened: by some amazing grace, I took a break from my shitty self-talk, realized that I really don’t want to feel like this forever, and forced myself to start doing things that people say are helpful.  

  • They didn’t feel helpful at the time, but I thought “look, you can either lay on the floor for the rest of your life or you can get your ass up and try to paint…who the fuck knows, maybe you’ll be famous for it after you die.” So I got my ass up and started painting.  
  • Then I thought, “they say writing is therapeutic. let’s try that shit.”  So I wrote down exactly how I felt. I imagined what my heart looked like.  I wrote things like “I feel like shit. The kind of shit that’s been walked on forever, or the kind of shit that’s stuck to a dog’s ass and just keeps getting smooshed and more shitty.”  (literary genius. I know. Pretty eloquent shit.)
  • When that shit only kind of helped, I slept a lot.  I slept enough.  I let myself fall asleep and stay asleep so I didn’t have to deal with it.  Now, I don’t know if this is a good fix.  It just seemed to work for me.
  • And when I woke up crying, I went out and bought a book that helped me through another really shitty time in my life: A New Earth by Eckhart Tolle.  Now, I’m not trying to sell you on the book, it was just something that worked for me before.
  • I forced myself to get up and do some work.  Mostly because I knew that getting yelled at by my boss would make my life worse.  But I got the job done.  And that gave me some worth back. 
  • And last, but not least— and something that I want to fucking punch people when they tell me:  I got my ass up and ran the shit out of my poor legs.  I thought “well, I’m fucking miserable.  Why don’t I just go run and be miserable.  Then maybe my endorphins will kick in and I’ll get high.”  (which didn’t happen, btw.  The only runner’s high I get is the fucking amazing feeling of gratitude towards myself when I let myself stop.)

So, don’t take this as a way to get yourself out of depression because I’m no therapist.  I have no fucking idea.  I just know that throwing myself into these things helped me.  And yesterday, I had a really great day.  Today — I kind of feel shitty again. But there’s no crying on the floor shit.  It’s a kind of crap-feeling that I can handle and I know will get better.

and….so……there’s the story of the time that I was a fucking mess and how I was a strong-ass-bitch and got my sexy ass out of it.  With the help of some the best friends ever.

The End.

Stay up, little darlings.  Be strong, and loud, and terrifyingly amazing.