Return to the Cubicle, or, Coming Out of The Rabbithole

In the morning I will return to the cubicle that I left on a not-particularly-memorable Wednesday in August.

I don’t remember much about that day. I do recall saying (rather ill-advisedly, in retrospect) to a colleague that perhaps someone I was dealing with would be pleased to see me dead. I was crying, (sobbing, actually) as I said it. Because at that point? I did want to be dead.

That was the day I, in layperson’s terms, lost my shit. Went head first down the rabbit hole. Took a dip in the deep end of the crazy pool.

Before I left that afternoon, I’d spent quite a few days (read: weeks) in my cubicle weeping. Allergies, I told people. Which was not entirely a lie: I am plagued with horrendous allergies that do cause my eyes to water. More like leak, though, not the nonstop saline stream that pretty much ruined my makeup by 9 a.m.

Anyhoo. Back to my cubicle. It’s relatively secluded, which suits me, as I tend to talk out loud. Yes, I answer myself, smart ass. It’s not the behavior of a crazy person, but a creative. Read something absurd? You bet your sweet bippy I’m going to comment on it. Something horrible? Yep; I’m going to “holy SHIT” the hell out of it. Write something fantastic? Oh yeah. I’m definitely reading it out loud to make sure it sounds as good as I think it reads. I pretty much keep a running commentary on everything, because opinions.

My secluded cubicle is a blessing to everyone, to be honest. Because not only do I talk a lot, I’m also quite messy. Ok, I’m a fucking cubicle slob. My desk is covered in files and papers and magazines and post-it notes, and littered with empty pop bottles (points for music knowledge if you just thought of that John Prine song), English muffin crumbs, and my horde of napkins.

Not my desk. Mine is worse.

“It’s the writer in me,” I would say, when the look of ick would sweep across the face of a coworker who would happen by.

“Oh, of course!” would always be the polite reply. But I’m pretty sure they’d grab a fistful of antibacterial as they backed away. I keep some outside cubey because oddly/not oddly, I have a little bit of a germ phobia. Ok it’s really not a big deal. I just hate public restrooms.

But I’ve digressed.

I have spent the last 83 of 85 days sober (Day 10 today, because a slip means you start over.). Of those 85 days, nine were spent in hospital; 25 (or was it 27?) were spent in an intensive outpatient program learning coping and other living skills; part of another 8 were spent in my therapist’s office; a handful were spent on my favorite beach, reconnecting with ocean and sun; and my happiest and easiest: the dozen or so I spent in Pennsylvania.

Jim Thorpe, Pennsylvania

I left work that day not knowing it would be fall when I returned, mere weeks from Thanksgiving and Christmas and already into E’s second quarter of sophomore year.

The season changed, and so have I. My head is clearer than it has been in a good, long while. Perhaps ever. I’m not ‘there’ yet, but I am stronger than I’ve ever been: I know now that I deserve to be happy and whole and loved, by myself and others. My commitment to therapy and taking the medication that keeps my depression at bay, by leveling my brain’s serotonin levels, is without question. I am committed to my sobriety; I know that self-medicating and self-sabotage may always be tempting, but I’m resolved to stay sober, one day at a time. I work each day at using the dilalectical behavior skills I’ve learned, like living in the moment, practicing self-love and self-kindness, and letting my thoughts come, without judgement. I practice using wise mind; already, I am more at peace and far less conflicted than I was before DBT, and I’m curious to see how this will help me write and manage my workload.

I am three months older, 25 pounds lighter, and the proud canvas of a new tattoo, ‘Life Is Beautiful.’*

Three weeks ago, I wasn’t ready to return to work. I still had work to do to get to the place where, as now, I would be excited to get back to a part of my life that has been missing. I am nervous, yes, but when people ask me where I’ve been (and they will), I will simply say I’ve a health issue, and I’m dealing with it, and leave it at that. I am not ashamed of what I’ve gone through — my multiple, lay-myself-bare posts here on Medium are evidence of that — but I don’t want pity or to be seen as fragile. I am actually stronger than most.

And now? I’m ready. So bring on Monday. I think I’ll get to work early; I’ve got a lot to catch up on. And a cubicle to clean.

*https:[email protected][email protected]-under-my-left-clavicle-8fd2d5cb5e3d