Recently it happened... The full blown meltdown of mind and body, the only remnants of myself a blubbering mess of gasping sobs lying on the kitchen floor in my bathrobe. To be in that moment of complete despair while at the same time outside of myself thinking "What the hell is wrong with you? Get up!" is like some twisted form of The Truman Show where I'm watching my own drama unfold while simultaneously writhing within it. As much as I could feel some form of pilot light of strength and hope deep within me, what won out was the overwhelming compression of months of riding the Gravitron of life tumult. When the ride finally slowed the grief vomited forth in a tsunami of despair and exhaustion.
I had done my best to drag myself to the kitchen when the phone rang, only to miss the call when the fourth ring swallowed the life on the other line into voicemail. It had been my boyfriend calling to say goodnight. When the final ring split in half and the call disappeared, I crumpled to the floor like a rag doll and wept, not about anything specific, just an anguish that had been ignored for so long that I could literally no longer stand from the magnitude of it. It was an out of body experience, alone with myself, where all I could do was pray for help because I couldn't take it anymore. I could hear myself screaming inside, and I desperately needed to be released from the emotional hell of guilt and shame. Let's hope this is what is meant by the term "rock bottom" even though it was cheap linoleum underneath me.
When I finally mustered the strength to stand and call my boyfriend back I didn't even have the energy to speak. I just sobbed and tried repeatedly to stutter "I'm okay." I could still feel the chill on my cheek from the kitchen floor, but somehow needed to pretend that all was well. I think I scared him. He asked if he needed to call the hospital or something. I insisted that no, I was going to take a hot bath and relax. He suggested I drink some tea too. Not sure why, but this small idea, his only source of "fixing" things for me, was comforting. I insisted I would be fine, grabbed a stack of spiritual books, took some tea upstairs, and sank slowly into the tub as the water provided me the warm embrace my body so craved.
The books remained on the floor untouched as I closed my eyes and guided myself into a Milton Erickson style visualization. The Lady of Spring had been lying dormant in a harsh winter for long enough. It was time for her to emerge, and so together we broke through the frozen tundra and watched as life began to animate itself once again, small patches of grass dancing again in defiance of the ice that surrounded it. When I woke from this beautiful vision I had only enough energy to dry off, call my boyfriend as I had promised and insist again that all was well, and allow my dilapidated body to finally sink into bed for the night.
The truth is that I will be okay. Life isn't a 30 minute sitcom though where all the answers come easily and the next day/episode everything is restored to homeostasis. So, today I feel better than linoleum day, and that's progress. Yesterday I laughed with my sister about the ridiculousness of it all, and it felt great to not take everything so seriously for a change. It was cathartic for my cheek to introduce itself to the kitchen floor that night. I have no intention of them becoming friends, but maybe they needed to meet in order for me to move along on this life adventure, to flip the calender page and allow The Lady of Spring to wake again. Maybe she will bring warmth and life, not only to my own reawakening, but to others as they read of my survival of the bitter isolation the winter, and my rebirth into the new possibilities my spring has in store for me.
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