Whoever decided I should start a new fucking job near the holidays and at the start of a new fucking year in the third century year of this fucking pandemic should be shot.
Me. That person is me.
I’ve had a hell of a time digging myself out of the black fucking mood that the holidays tend to put me in alongside trying to figure out how to lead a team again and navigate all the complexity of a new job in a new discipline so my brain has been on this endless teeter-totter of holy fuck this is awesome and exciting then the holy fuck what am I doing this is terrifying, over and over again.
Never let it be said that I don’t do things on expert mode.
But thing it’s got me thinking about is actually how much of a personal responsibility our own mental health and balance is. And that’s a cold fucking truth sometimes, but it’s a thing.
While I’ve been trying to dial the screaming synapses in my head down to a dull roar, I had to set aside some shit. Writing took a back seat, the blinds I was going to put up are still in the boxes in the garage, there’s Mount Amazon by the door because I only manage to find the cognitive space for de-packing and organizing shit I ordered, and I’m making my groceries come to me again because who the fuck wants to step outside in arctic temperatures in Chicago to buy food I can pretend to want to cook before I order DoorDash and dig the wilted celery out of the bottom of the drawer?
But so often, when we’re feeling the raggedy edges of burnout or overwhelm, we have to recognize first and foremost that no one is fucking coming to save us.
I know. It’s kind of brutal to put it that way. But really.
Jane the Therapist is awesome and she has done more to help me heal than anyone I’ve ever worked with. I have a great boss and great colleagues and wonderful friends. My family loves and cares about me. My kid is the light of my life.
But when it comes down to it, the only savior I have in my life is staring me dead-ass in the mirror every morning and begging me to make the coffee.
I have to fucking save myself. Every time. Over and over again.
Yep, there are times when that truth is absolutely exhausting. I want someone to do it for me. I want to cry and have someone scoop me up in their arms and remind me it’s going to be okay and tell me I’m a fucking warrior and remind me to drink a glass of water instead of the whole box of wine. I want someone to do the thing for me that I can’t find the motivation to do, or take it away from me and tell me I don’t have to fucking do it.
And sometimes they do.
But mostly, I have to decide each day how to put one foot in front of the other. I have to say no, I will not add that shit to my plate today. I will not return that text in the group chat that’s making me insane or worry about the opinion of that random fucknob on the internet. I have to tune in and know that my mind cannot fucking deal with that one task or problem or whatever that can surely fucking wait another 72 hours until I’m in a better place to deal with it. I have to cancel the meeting, move the phone call, block off time on my calendar, go to therapy, make the time for a walk in the middle of my workday, take the nap, prioritize the time with my daughter.
I have to do that shit. Myself. Me.
It’s not to say I have to do it alone, in that if I need moral support while I do it I should reach out and ask for it. But when it comes down to it, I have to do the work. Set the boundaries. Protect my own well-being and mental headspace and be really fucking clear about my capacity. So. Thats why it’s been like four fucking weeks since you had me swearing at you in your inbox. It’s me over here owning my shit, being my brain’s mama bear protector, being my own fucking white knight of fortitude because last I checked the calvary isn’t coming and I owe it to myself to not sit around and wait for them anyway.
Resilience is fucking exhausting, but it’s also an individual sport, even with the biggest cheering sections in the world.
(That also means the only person continually procrastinating on finishing the fucking book proposal is…yours truly. So I’m going to go work on that this weekend. Maybe. If the blinds in the garage don’t call to me first).
Wishing you the strength to bring your own armada to the party this week, to dust yourself off and be your own bestie, and to wield a mental strap-on of self-assurance and badassery under those pants of yours and walk with the swagger of someone befitting your station.
Or at the very least, don’t forget to drink a glass of water today, okay?
I’ll see you again soon.
With love and angst,
Amber
It has been way more that a fucking minute; it's been fucking HOURS.
Not since your sunny charm has appeared in my inbox, no. Never going to get down on a person for not making an appearance timely (whatever that is, when on the Internet) but this whole fucking ADULTHOOD thing has been grinding me down for . . . well, if "adulthood" begins when one attains one's majority and can drink, let's just say I'm a double adult plus an angsty whiny teen. That's how many years it's been.
And your post today? Holy bananas, sistah, you just put your finger right on the oozy sore spot. (Ewww. But thanks.) Thanks for saying that sometimes it is HARD AS FUCK to pull up your big girl panties and do what needs doing. That each and every one of us is out here, handling the shit just as well as we can, on our own.
I had no idea how sick and tired I was of the Suzie Sunshines ("The pandemic is a great time to exercise your mindfulness skills!! Let's be grateful for having toilet paper again! Let's bake banana bread using flour and bananas that we grew ourselves!!!") who never seem to need/want rescuing until I read your post and realized, yeah. Amber has a point. That while there is no shame in asking for help, ultimately we have to yank on our own bootstraps until we get up to where we want to be.
I keep seeing articles and posts where the author floats serenely heavenward, hands firmly locked on the footgear, making it look so, so, easy and wonder why the FUCK do I have to do calming exercises just to fucking function? Just to get out of bed and brush my hair?
Hint for you, Spike -- this is the part that no one talks about. Except Amber. Thank you for this.
Reminds me of the old Al-Anon adage, ODAT (one day at a time). I've broken that down to a second at a time. I guess that's where the exclamation, "Fuck-me!" Comes from ... We just keep doing it to ourselves.
Truly, it's a tough ass world out there, and it's just us fighting for ourselves. One task at a time we will prevail. Besides, what the hell, can you get fired from life? What doesn't get done simply doesn't. We know what's important ... Family, kids, and the means to support them. Wine, water, wine ... Pace thyself! You Are Not Alone.