The Re-Fluffing of Me

Part of the beauty of blogging is opening yourself up to the world. This is what people point to as the worst of blogging, too, (“Why do you want everyone to know you made a cake?!” or “Why do you want the world to hear about your emotional issues?”) but that mentality doesn’t jive with me. I love it when someone shares about their day – even the little things like a new cake recipe – or talks about what they’re struggling with because I learn so much about my own self, even if what they’re talking about isn’t something obviously related to my life.

Sharing like this was something I used to to do better than I have been currently. I curbed it on purpose because I needed to be less heart-on-sleeve for a while, but it’s been lonely to not write my feelings. And so, these are my feelings: I am happy mountain climber. This life, if it’s a mountain, I’m in the middle of it. I can look down and see all of these unbelievable rock formations I’ve gotten over, and I look up and can see others that seem insurmountable and I keep loosing my footing, “Oh shit oh shit oh shit!” and think I can’t get through them, but then I remember those really scary rock formations I’ve already gotten through and I’m like, “Oh, yeah, I actually can totally do this.” So I’m happy, even though it’s hard, and I’m still climbing.

I had a series of incidents a few months ago that devastated me – I’m being vague because it involves other people and would be tacky to disclose telling info, ok? Someone was unbearably unkind to me, and it crushed me for a while. I’m just now starting to fluff back up again. And, you know, there’s one thing I’m really good at, and it’s not letting people who don’t matter get me down. But this person matters, because they are woven into the fabric of my life whether I like it or not, and the incidents were so troubling that I had to do something I’ve never done before: I sought medical help to get through. I lost sleep, and hair(!), and confidence in my ability to maintain the level of grace I expect of myself. I stopped eating well (although I managed to not stop exercising, which helped tremendously), and eventually emailed my doctor, a huge step for me, and asked for help. I am a big believer in “save yourself” ala Iyanla Vanzant but this time I just couldn’t do it alone, and Rob couldn’t help me by himself either (though, bless him, he tried) and so I said to an outsider, “Help me” and OH MY GOD THE WORLD DIDN’T COME TO AN END.

I know; you know that. But it shocked me.

He ended up not prescribing anything at my insistence, and that was a mistake (I’m really not good at this “ask for help” stuff). I just didn’t want to feel like “Oh, I’m one of those people who needs drugs now.” even though I read all of Heather Armstrong’s posts labeled “depression” and should, therefore, know better. But just talking to someone helped, even though it felt weird.

I’m better now. I managed to save myself with a little bit of help. It was harder than it needed to be, and I won’t make that mistake again. I’m learning. And I’m getting fluffier.

picture via flickr user Ripis