|Rinse, repeat, get better.
||[Dec. 26th, 2016|07:31 pm]
Echo: I love you.
Echo: I fear.
Echo: this nausea, this cacophonous heartbeat.
Echo: you're safe.
Echo: nothing has changed.
Echo: I love you.
(You take some deep breaths while the world shakes. You hear yourself saying "I can't I can't I can't" and sealing your feelings off from the world like leaving the door open was a tactical error, like caring was clearly a mistake because it's so much more comfortable not to feel quite so tender. Everything feels impossible. You consider running away from everyone you know, starting over, building walls, quitting the world because you aren't good enough to swim in this one. You feel weak, you feel small, you feel hypocritical, paranoid, irrational, helpless.
You take some more deep breaths. You get a glass of water, you lie down. Look at something beautiful you have nothing to do with creating or supporting, like a sunset. An idea quietly, nervously forms: trust. You start blotting out the "I can't"s with the word "trust", even at its most hollow-feeling and meaningless, like cleaning spilled champagne with a rag, catching bits of broken glass as you go and trying to keep the glass out of your fingers. Trust.
Have something to eat. Scrutinize your insecurity. You feel helpless, so be helpless. Don't resist helplessness if resistance feels futile, don't close yourself off if the closing only half-works and hurts, oh it hurts. Don't punish yourself for having feelings. Trust. You're fine. Nothing is wrong. Whatever it was you were afraid of, it didn't happen. Trust. You've got this. Let your heartbeat slow down. Let your world stop shaking. Get perspective. Then when you're most of the way relaxed, write it all down (if you'd rather, when you're done writing you can cross it out and throw it away.) Trust.