lie no. 17 | 05.08.19
I spent a decent amount of last summer on the floor crying. I also took an excessive number of baths.
Basically, I became Tom Hanks in Castaway, sobbing uncontrollably—while floating—over losing a damn volleyball.
It was embarrassing. I hadn’t even experienced a loss*—not of the significant persuasion nor the sporting-goods variety—to warrant this kind of behavior.
I’ve never cried at a funeral. I have LinkedIn-endorsement-worthy face management skills. I’m the one you pick as executor of your will, knowing I’ll unemotionally be able to pull the plug when it’s time and probably make it back to work later that day.
So to find myself sinking to the ground on a somewhat regular basis, unable to bear the weight of my own tears—sometimes even going down in that dramatic back-against-the-wall-style slide I’d long believed only existed in Hollywood—scared the hell out of me.
After my levees broke, instead of seeking shelter, I just sat really still in the water, thinking I could hide from the flood’s devastation by blending into it.
At the time I thought I’d finally mastered the art of #selfcare. Now I realize it was anything but.
What ultimately got me up off the floor and out of the bath—well, with help from my dog, who, without fail always came in to check on me, sighing heavily before turning around, leaving only her judgments hanging in the air—was writing.
By the antepenultimate post of the OG Lies, I’d started to come around to vulnerability’s, ahem, ability. That’s when I started writing for the only audience that mattered: me. I stopped writing on a once-a-week-posting schedule. I started writing every day. I started writing about everything and nothing at all.
At the time, the best I could do was write it all down. At the time, it was incredibly brave I shared it with even one person. And even that showed me the tremendous effects naming and claiming your feelings can have.
Writing was my gateway drug to awareness. If you’re not paying attention, you can’t be astonished. If you’re not astonished, there’s not much to tell about.
Writing got me out of the god damn bath and that’s when I retaught myself how to live a life worth writing about.
All these months later, I’ve realized writing is my pace car. When it slows down, I have to slow down. When it stops braking, I let my foot off it, too. Even still, it’s always a a little ahead of me.
This Lie is not for everyone, so I won’t subject the lot of you to it.
This Lie is only for anyone’s who’s ever experienced pain, anxiety or depression. It’s not great writing, but it’s real. It’s unfiltered. It’s weird. It’s uncomfortable. At times it’s funny. At times it’s disturbing. At times it’s sad as hell. I’d never force these feelings upon anyone.
When you feel disturbed, funny, uncomfortable, weird, unfiltered, depressed, anxious or in pain; whether you feel it in your bones, gut, heart, head or soul; NOTHING helps more than knowing you’re not alone in that awful feeling. Experiences vary, feelings are as universal as they come. Read this when you need to remember that.
*in Lie No. 19, I learn loss and grief aren’t reserved for people or even objects