I've been sitting in this spot on the couch.
Yes. That's right. All dayy.
JP Saxe has this album called Dangerous Levels of Introspection. It makes me think of a mad scientist from a cartoon, pulling the lever of a complex, button-covered machine and cackling wildly while gauges start red-lining.
I’ve had this album on repeat for the past few hours while the alarms have been blaring through my frazzled, fried, stress-mangled room of a mind all throughout the day.
This has been my sole and unchanging view from this spot on the couch today -
Welcome to another morning of war against anxiety.
I’ve been sitting in this spot for a few hours now, and I can’t seem to muster up the energy to get up, even as my sore Atlas of a back bellows in pain from bearing up against this ruthlessly static position.
And it's not just my back. Lots of other things have remained in this blasted place of stuckness. That Christmas tree in the picture, for instance.
No. You’re not seeing things.
Yes, it is February.
Why, yes, we do still have our tree up.
It’s mostly because James loves our tree. Actually, ‘love’ isn’t strong enough. He adores it. He lights it up excitedly every morning, and even chides me for not plugging it in first thing on mornings that I get up earlier than him. But even without his childlike obsession with our tree, I don’t think I could rally up my inner troops to put it away.
Because life has been exhausting. These last few weeks have been plagued with an endless parade of meetings, emails, conversations, political pressure, and serving as a container for too many heavy stories. On Friday, I woke up with my chest feeling rubber-banded with persecutive tightness and my Apple Watch chirped with alarm at me. Calm the fricassee down or we’re gonna have to trill at you again!
My administrators, who walked in on me struggling to breathe, sent me home that day with stern orders to get some rest. Their directives crumpled against the stubbornly declining needle of my emotional gas tank.
So this isn’t really an Eat With Me post. Or a Read With me post. It’s just where I am - here, now.
Don't worry. I’m not giving in. It’s a war against anxiety; not a capitulation, a surrender, or defeat. It’s called a war because I’m throwing up some serious flame against this fire.
The effervescence of this midday Prosecco makes me think of lassoing my own spirit onto its buoyant bubbles. And I've got this gorgeous TBR pile sitting on the end table next to me. The book covers are dancing and jumping with their colorful and jaunty fonts, cheering, Look at me! You want to read me! Adventure away with us from the dark tunnel!
And I’ve got my towering, vibrant Lily of Paradise beside me, leaning her leaves toward me, reminding me how much slow, imperceptible, and beautiful growth can be produced from small graces like just a little bit of light and water.
So here’s to lifeguards. Here’s to rubber duckies and gaudy Dollar Store floaties that wrap themselves loyally around our arms. Here’s a rousing, nonjudgmental Cheers! to whatever floats your boat and helps keep your head above the water. I’m right here with you, taking deep box breaths and learning to tread through my own murky pool.
We’re gonna' make it.