I’m Self-Helping Myself Into a Rubber Room
Self awareness is awesome. It has become one of my saving graces over the years, and has also released me from some of my more incredibly vicious cycles.
Surrounding myself with people who are equally as interested in the inner workings of their minds has also been a godsend, and has kept me motivated to continue to dig deep to find the causes behind my desire to self-destruct.
It has been empowering, and in some cases, a bit of a high to sit back in “Ah ha!” moments, and realize I didn’t have to do that thing that was destroying me anymore, because I now fully understand the WHY of it.
Self-awareness has saved me in a lot of ways, but I’m realizing lately, it has also stunted me. Constantly looking inward and analyzing the hows and whys of all the things. Searching to find the missing pieces — to put Humpty back together — has effected my ability to BE. It has made it more difficult to enjoy some of the healing process, and bask in the beauty of being broken.
There is beauty in the broken pieces, and I have forgotten that it’s 100% okay to just BE sometimes.
Somewhere along the line, I started pretending it was my life’s mission to fix myself and others, and the desire to feel better became my job.
The strange part is, the act of finding myself has become almost as exhausting as feeling lost. I have come to the conclusion that might mean I’ve actually found some balance, and have given myself permission to drop the shovel for a bit.
I have committed to reading this summer, but only books that promise to take me OUT of myself, instead of pushing further in. I have committed to chatting with friends about whatever the hell comes to mind – like how much it sucks to BE an anxious ball of sweater at the party – instead of using all of my energy to talk myself out of my right to BE anxious.
I’ve given myself permission to feel however I need to and let myself off the hook to immediately jump to any rescue. Most of us know where the side of the pool is; in case we need the lean. I’ve decided it’s okay to swim to the middle and just float there a while, and not be so emotionally attached to every feeling that passes through. I don’t have to psychoanalyze everything. I don’t have to be on point or ready for anything.
My every action needs not have rhyme or reason, and they don’t all have to mean anything.
Shit can just BE whatever it is, and maybe it won’t kill me.
Sounds way better than self-helping myself to rubber room, right? How utterly ridiculous.