From therapy today I went straight to grocery shopping and was midway through the trip before my breath started to freeze up in my lungs, the uncertainty principle holding tight and shaking me, shaking the core of me who demands control, and I nearly went down, flakes of snow in my eyes and all as I held tight to the shelf between the Goldfish and the Wheat Thins. I started at my hands as I struggled to breathe, to center and release, and noticed they have slowly started to become old lady hands, whispers of the strong entitled hands they once were.
Still strong, but the start of transparency was already upon us. The thought of endings, of death of change, brought another wave of barbed wire tight fear, fear so strong I could barely swallow, and I cursed myself for leaving the Ativan at home, today, of all days.
I know fear now. I looked around me, men, women, children, all blind to my heaving chest and wild eyes, the the fear, the the screaming head saying “I’m all alone! Help me, please!” and I thought I might fall, hit my head on the 1 ton package of Goldfish, be dazed, embarrassed and confused but ultimately ok. I thought maybe someone might come to my rescue, dust me off, treat me kindly, pleasure and happiness in his eyes.
Mostly, I just held on. I walked through the rest of that place pacing my breathing like I was in labour, focusing on things other than that which swirled through my head, the bad thoughts, the anger, the fear, the ire, all of it. The paranoias that walk my brain, which my therapist assures me are not in anyway bipolar but just plain old ass-sucking life.
I’ve been happy the last few days, in a good mood, pleased with myself, content to what happens, even if I cannot control it. So this afternoon, after a therapy session full of thoughts I haven’t vocalized being spoken to me, I was lost again, and wondering if I’ll ever find a path I can be sure of again, one that doesn’t leave me breathless and fearful of throwing up as I crumble to the floor.
I despise weakness in myself, almost more than anything. I despise and am troubled by asking for help-any help. I know why-after my mother died, the only people who would help were those PAID to do so. I’ve internalized this to mean that the people in my life never truly want to help, so why ask. Keep it in, keep it to yourself, where it’s safe and no one can hurt you with it. I’m so terribly sick of hurting and inflicting hurt, but I haven’t the faintest idea how to stop.
I fear it’s killing me, killing my life, destroying my ability to interact with anyone, ruining ever the ability to negotiate that strange meat counter dance.
And now, I ask for help. How do you let go? How do you open up enough to let things pass through, even when the spikes of then and now are so sharp and bloody covered in your chest? How do you know what is the right thing to do, especially if the world around you is cold and closed, and all you hear is the echo of your own voice?
How do you keep your hands tight on those shelves?