For the past few days I’ve had this awful sensation in my chest. It feels similar to that of heartbreak; that gnawing, dull ache that comes along with a great disappointment or betrayal. I keep willing it to turn into anger or sadness, but there it sits, mostly unchanging and annoyingly reminding me that all is not well in the world.
My psychiatrist/therapist told me on Tuesday that it’s perfectly okay for me to be spending every day in bed if that’s what makes me feel good. And it does. I’m trying not to feel too guilty about it — especially as I watch friends baking and reading and making art and working out and whatever the fuck else other productive things they’re doing via Instagram. You made another banana bread, Jessica? Awesome. I don’t give a flying fuck. A friend of mine told me the other day she actually unfollowed everyone on her social media that was posting about productive things/influencing her to buy stuff. It made me feel a lot better and wishing ill will to the British ‘blogger’ posting about filling in her own lashes & the 18th day in a row she had done “Yoga with Adrienne.” Whoever the fuck Adrienne is.
SO in addition to feeling some sort of annoyingly numb heartbreak situation, I’m also laying around in my day pajamas all day, either reading horrible chic lit books or binging TV shows about pirates. Ok. Fine. Maybe this is not the healthiest way to be spending my time. But I haven’t had a carb in 2.5 weeks, so bite me. Wait, scratch that, I had a scooped bagel yesterday for lunch.
Maybe I am angry. Maybe I’m so angry I don’t know what to do with myself. After all, am I not grieving for the life that I had expected to have right now? The life that included New York, working a dream job for the next several months, FINALLY moving to London come the summer/fall, and not to mention an exciting new beau to whom I should be showing my beautiful city. Alas, here I am, home in Kentucky, layed off, plans for the future dashed, a pile of sweats and pajamas piling up in the corner of my room, and no gorgeous, kind, funny Brit sitting across from me in a bar drinking a pint and plotting where to go for pizza later. Ok. Yes. FUCK THIS.
Hold please. I think we may have triggered a tear.
And now here I am, anger starting to creep in, fear definitely settling in, wondering WELL HELL, SHOULD I SEND MY RESUME TO THAT BORING JOB POSTING?! OH LOOK THE POST OFFICE IS HIRING! And even more obnoxiously thinking…hmmm… maybe it’s time to put some walls up with the guy, you know, in case I start to let myself fall too hard… as if that hasn’t already happened. Please excuse me as I self-sabotage and apply to be a mail-woman.
Said therapist has challenged me to ponder allowing myself to be angry. I think over the past couple of years I’ve subconsciously drilled into my mind that good things just aren’t meant to happen to me. My dreams and plans seem to always be just out of reach. A job that appears at first to be too good to be true either turns into a living hell or a pandemic comes along to knock it out altogether. The man I’ve met couldn’t possibly feel the same as I do about him, and even if he does, things will never work out with us. We’re so ready to accept the worst life throws at us and just accept it… so ready to accept that we’re “not worthy.”
In the grand scheme of it all, I am lucky. I am healthy. My family is healthy. I am home and not wanting for anything. Well, maybe for my stimulus check. But I’m okay with admitting that it’s not enough.