i miss my dad.
there’s something wrong with me.
i should really start therapy.
should i start a podcast?
am i a bad friend?
i miss my ex.
i hope my mom’s doing alright.
am i unloveable?
recently, i saw a tiktok i’ve been unable find again of a black woman talking about the “science of crashing out.” she spoke about how she believes the only way to have a situation/person finally have no effect on you is to crash out about it unbelievably bad like 800 times. once you’ve lost it so much you simply cannot lose it anymore, you’re over it. it can’t touch you, you’ve spent all the energy you physically can on it. she likened it to when we get a physical injury—a sprained ankle or broken wrist. the only way to get it to heal is to take x amount of months keeping it in a cast until it mends itself. often times, people will scoff at others with emotional wounds, scolding them telling them to “get over it.” the same doesn’t happen with the physical. if i broke my arm and someone told me, “just start moving it again, go back to picking up heavy things you’ll be fine” i would look at them like a crazy person. she questioned why then do we treat our emotional injuries with such carelessness.
i think the stress and heartbreak of this year has finally caught up to me. i think i am on the precipice of an incredible crash out. i don’t think i realized how much i’d been holding on to until recently. since january i’ve been rolling with the punches and compartmentalizing in order to keep chugging along, to stay functional.
it wasn’t until i took a late night (or maybe you’d call it early morning) trip to the emergency room last week in the throes of a panic attack, fully convinced there was a blood clot in my leg that would inevitably make its way to my lungs and kill me in my sleep that i took a step back and thought, maybe i’m exhausted actually. and it was sitting in the er hallway on a stretcher, the place i had never been before this year that i was now a frequent visitor of, i faced some of those thoughts and feelings head on. the now familiar smells, the beeps and monitors took me back to the early days after my dad’s heart attack. the scary days. the day spent in the icu on ventilators wrapped up in cooling blankets like a mummy. the days i couldn’t bring myself to sit by his bedside because it made it all feel too real. the days i sat outside his room watching his monitor with baited breath in constant fear it would eventually stop.
these memories rushed through my head as the phantom clot in my leg pulsed, and slowly but surely, i got the sinking feeling it wasn’t a physical illness that brought me there. by the time i was seen by anyone it was almost 3 in the morning. around 2:30, a medical student assisting the head physician examined me to get a read on what was wrong in order to brief the doctor. he had kind eyes and was incredibly understanding. i ran through my symptoms, the reasons i was paranoid about clotting happening, and eventually—very candidly—confessed my life long medical anxiety was the main reason i insisted on coming. anxiety that i found has only worsened since my dad’s hospitalization.
“what are you anxious about?” the student asked me, lowering the pad he was taking notes on.
“well…having a blood clot…” and dying, i wanted to say but stopped myself because i knew it sounded crazy.
he frowned a bit, then nodded softly, “that’s fair. but that’s why we’re going to get you checked out and see what’s going on.” his smile was reassuring. in fact, all the staff on that night were reassuring and incredibly understanding. so were the staff i saw the next day during my leg ultrasound to double check my blood vessels were clear.
i have a really hard time talking to people…about my emotions…to anyone really. i have a hard time talking about them to myself. half the time the only way i can get myself to admit anything is to write it down and writing things down brings a weight and seriousness to things i couldn’t handle so even that’s been neglected the last few months. so much has happened this year, i didn’t realize until the warmth of the med student’s kindness washed over me that i hadn’t fully processed the pseudo break-up i went through. it seemed so silly and trivial at the time to waste even a day being sad over something that fizzled out after a couple months and didn’t amount to anything. so much so that i think even in my own writing i lied to myself about the weight of it, how much i cared.
it feels so silly to use such big words but i think i’m still a little heartbroken over it. meeting someone who was willing to be so patient with me at such a vulnerable time in my life was huge for me. and while the connection didn’t deepen the way i’d hoped it would for those 4 or so months i had a little light in the darkness, a few hours of respite from the constant grief. i felt like even though things were bad at home sometimes, i could be excited and happy because i was building something new. i don’t know that i’ve ever bounced back from that.
admitting that feels shameful. it feels like somehow i’ve failed. but i feel like pretending these last few months like things were fine somehow made it all worse. my relationship ended within the same week my casting internship did and ever since, i’ve been stuck in an unending rut. working 3 jobs i’m not proud of while still being unable to pay rent and going on terrible dates with thoughtless men who don’t even bother asking how many siblings i have.
all the while, i know my true calling, i know i’m the happiest and most motivated when i’m creative, when i’m writing or performing in something. i know that’s the answer to my problems, but i feel this heavy, thick, fog engulfing me. making it hard to think, let alone move. it’s manifesting in a lack of energy, in doubting every idea, every piece of writing i think to draft. i doubt my abilities, my originality, doubt there’s an audience. creative paralysis is suffocating me.
since january my family has been recounting the day all our lives changed, “you were so calm.” my mom has told me time and time again. i went on a date days after things ended with my ex. things happen and it feels like i just pick up problems and throw them in my bag to address them later and it’s finally catching up with me. i can’t handle another. my limbs are sore, my back is tired, and i need a break.
it’s taken years, but i think i finally understand. the only way out is through. and if feeling all of these uncomfortable—at times conflicting—emotions is the only way to fully heal, i think i’m ready to try.
I’m sorry you’re not doing great right now. I am sorry that I have contributed to your current crash.
I am hoping that you find the comfort and peace you need. ❤️🩹