getting personal.

Quite a bit has been weighing heavily on my mind for the past month. Really, we all have stacks of something or other that clutter our conscious, and sometimes it’s a real bitch to get it moved to the other side of the seesaw to get the motion back into our lives. I’ve been struggling with the deception I’ve dealt with on many levels through the last year or so: relationships, contracts, friendships, social media, education, et cetera. There’s a sexy side to what we present, there’s a stylish code, and then there’s the real side.

Here’s something real: when I get hurt I become depressed. I don’t vacuum. I don’t take out the trash as often, I don’t take my dog on the longer walks she deserves, and I don’t put anything away. I come home, drop my belongings where ever I can, fix myself something to eat in a kitchen that needed cleaning a week ago and lay down…completely consumed with all I’ve done that day and all that I need to be doing but can’t because my brain is so wrapped up in the chaos that surrounds me and that is within me.

With the depression comes a strong sense of empathy. Being empathetic is a real bitch, because it means I can’t always understand why you feel that way but the feeling permeates me when I am around you. It takes me over, and my only defense is to grow quiet and try to block it. Being constantly empathetic makes my job incredibly rewarding, and so, so difficult when I work with clients. It feels selfish to do what I need to do for myself, and wanting to help everyone I’m around all the time makes it really hard to even broach the topic and get something done. Of course nobody is asking for my help all the time, nobody demands it constantly, and my sense of obligation comes with the pitfall of pride. But I feel like if I helped point out the flaw in reasoning, if I could just get one more tool for my toolbox I could help, if I could give that person a scalp massage they’d feel better…if someone could give me a hug and mean it: I’d feel better.

I’m certainly no patron saint. I’ve hurt more than I care to list, in ways I really am not proud of. We hurt each other, as much as we care about and love each other in this life. Today, I started piecing my apartment slowly back together. It will take some time, but mental illness doesn’t look good as an interior decorating plan, and finding a physical outlet for my emotions and my thoughts is coming back into my schedule: active tomorrow.

I haven’t been as discrete as I know I’d have liked to have been, because for some reason I like to leave a trail of breadcrumbs on social media about how I’m doing, even if I don’t feel like saying it outright. It’s been a long couple of years, dealing with both some insane situations out of my control and heartbreak in varying degrees.

I’m not even sure why I felt like listing out how I react to things and why, but if in some way it helps someone else to know they aren’t alone: know it. You’re not alone. There’s a lot of us that feel this way, that act like this, and we put on faces and do our hair and make sure we present in the best way we can as often as possible. It’s what holds us together sometimes, the facade. The sexier side of presentation. There’s always a backstory, and sometimes the bullshit stories we feed each other do more damage than good.