This is the view from my therapeutic bath, from which I am writing this weblog entry.
I am terrible at accepting my need to let it all out, though, because I like to feel as though I have a measure of control. So, instead of just letting it all out naturally, I end up trying to make time for it, because it just makes so much sense to say to all your crazy Hey, Crazy, how's Thursday at 3:15 p.m. for you? If you get good and broken down, you'll still have time to recover for your 7:00 p.m. meeting.
Of course, my crazy doesn't respond well to my scheduling attempts. Case in point: me finding myself face down on my kitchen floor in response to the Palinode asking me how my day was last night.
I was hoping to put off such a meltdown until at least two weeks from now, but when I tried telling the Palinode what my day was like, it all, quite literally, went south.
"This last month of my life just feels like it's been too much, you know? I did all that fear conquering stuff with the dentist and the public speaking and the plane travel, and then..." I said from a perfectly normal standing position.
"...my grandpa died and we had the memorial and that weekend with family, and then my computer ate all the work I did today..." I huffed while bent over at the waist, arms dangling.
"...and I know that this is probably not a good time, because it's less than two months to Christmas, but my availability was terrible and unfair to my co-workers, so I quit my job today." I said, crouched over on my knees.
"You quit your job today?" he asked.
"Yeah, I quit my job. Wait," I said. "Am I face down on the kitchen floor?"
And, lo and behold, quite without choosing to be so, I was. My lips were brushing the linoleum as I spoke.
My crazy refuses to be scheduled, apparently. It also prefers to choose its own battleground. Why it would choose a faceplant on the kitchen floor over, say, a tropical resort, I have no idea. I think my crazy needs to re-prioritize.
It turns out that a faceplant on the floor was exactly what I needed, though. Instead of holding it all in and spackling over my heavy emotions with flat logic, my body took over and said You need to freak out, sister. Finding myself face down on the kitchen floor actually felt like a fortifying vitamin shot to the heart.
One of the biggest lessons my sobriety is teaching me right now is how to be an emotional person without running away to numb myself, and, as strange as it might sound, collapsing last night felt so incredibly human; I felt comforted by it. As much as all the noise of human emotions can be daunting and scary and downright inconvenient, especially after two decades of drinking them down, these same emotions are also the door to coming home to myself. When my mind and my body collude to make me finally let this shit out, and once I get comfortable with the humbling experience of kissing my linty floor, I can see myself. I can actually sit inside myself. Me as contentious object turns into me as Self.
I'm not suggesting that we all get down on our knees and make out with our respective kitchen flooring, though. Definitely not. Especially if you keep your house the way I do.
I am suggesting, though, that it can be a more relieving experience than we usually think it might be to get right down in the mud with ourselves, even if only for five minutes. It can feel like a revelation to be able to acknowledge with real feeling that today was the worst day ever and to let things move on through as they will when we aren't so busy shoving them back down deep into the middles of ourselves.