Every year has it's ups and downs. 2012 was especially topsy-turvy and I, a card carrying V.I.P. FastPass member, was getting ushered to the front of the line whether I liked it or not. Because of this roller coaster style Sturm und Drang, rarely knowing whether to laugh or cry, I had little time to write life down as it was happening. The FF Word has been quite lonesome because of it so without further adieu:
A funny thing happened on the way to gut wrenching happiness...
I had a nervous breakdown.
Trust me. I needed to dissolve. The way I was living really wasn't my cup of tea.
Actually, I'm not a big tea drinker. More of an 'Iced Grande Soy Latte from a drive-thru sucked down with a bright green straw' kinda girl. And tequila. So as an aspiring authenticator I should begin this piece with more...reality:
My god damned pathetic life wasn't my roll in the hay. Oh yeah, that's better.
I hear people don't have nervous break downs anymore. In my youth, as the enthralled child of a
"Did you hear about so-and-so.....her husband left.....he must be having an affair.....my realtor said they're losing their house.....poor thing, she had a nervous breakdown.....is this dryer hot enough?"
Side note: If you google 'Nervous Breakdown', Wikipedia will redirect you to 'Mental Breakdown': "Nervous breakdown" redirects here. For other uses, see Nervous breakdown (disambiguation)."
Disambiguation?! That just sounds batshit crazy.
"Hello, Mr. Bossman? I'm sorry I won't be coming in to work today. I've got Disambiguation. Yes. Dis-am-big-uation. I've been Disambiguated. I don't know, life pissed me off and I caught this crap. I don't know when I'll be in. Dude, my Ambiguation has been Dissed, get off my case!"
It was the month of May and just another ordinary morning of strapping hot rollers in my Clairoled hair while guzzling down cold caffeine in lieu of real nutrition. Yes, just another rushed attempt at not being late for work as if timeliness was not just a pipe dream of mine. During this habitually boring morning, in between Q-tips and squeezing my ass into Spanx, I received news that I was caught in "a lie". Accusingly so with the intent to tear down my character.
You know that point when you have been running a million miles an hour, barely catching your breath from the day before, hanging on to the end of your rope -- that teeny, tiny last little frayed inch -- knowing that one fell swoop, one unexpected blow could send you spinning out of control like a wild banshee on fire? That was me and my head was in flames. One minute I was pushing up my bra with toothbrush securely shoved in mouth -- the next I was on the floor melting away like the Wicked Witch in a rainstorm.
I have lied many times in my life. Many, many times. As a child I felt I had to. As a teen I wanted to. As a young woman I was so good at it that it just came naturally. In my 40's, I learned how to stop. It was difficult and scary to be exposed in the world, naked with truth. But I did it. Lying was a type of addiction for me. Mostly to please others and hide my feelings. Many times to diminish my poor choices and bad behavior. I eventually took the blame for my faults and paid for them dearly. Full price. So at the age of 44, making great strides in honesty, I didn't take too kindly to receiving blame for something I had worked so hard to overcome.
I freaked out. I punched an empty flat screen TV box down the hallway until my knuckles were bruised. I scraped the shag carpet leaving a permanent scar on my elbow. I pounded the floor of the bathroom until I began to bleed. Sounds came out of me that are nonhuman. I dissolved into the linoleum less of a woman...and late for work. (Pipe dream, told ya.)
|Miss Atomic Bomb - 1950's. |
I wonder if I looked this pretty while I was blowing up? Let's just say I did. I had freshly curled hair.
After 20 minutes of cradling and rocking myself back and forth into something that resembled my sanity I got up and started all over again. Unfortunately (or fortunately), I have a health condition that is directly affected by emotional stress. I have been told for years to keep the stress levels down to a manageable level. I laugh here because it's virtually impossible. I do try. But alas, life -- It is a cruel lover. My disease kicked into gear within the hour and I could no longer walk in a straight line with my legs collapsing beneath me. I began having seizure like reactions as my entire body tensed up like a wooden plank, raising up and down out of bed. My nerves were on the loose and ruling every inch of me. I knew at this point that I better remove myself from the front burner and try to emotionally take it down a notch. I spent the rest of the day in bed, liquefied -- so full of sorrow. I couldn't believe that I was still allowing outside opinion to create in me unrelenting pain. I knew the claim wasn't true. I had not lied or misled anyone. I wanted so badly for that to be enough for me.
That day, during my Disambiguation, I broke through an impassioned tectonic plate of steel that had been weighing me down for years. That day, rendering my body unusable and putty-like, my mind made up with itself that I would never again become victim to someone who does not know me, whether they are in my inner circle or as distant as a stranger could possibly be. All that I had worked so hard to overcome over the years; all that I was building in my daily life of a new career and long-held mission of fearlessness could not stop me from feeling completely frail and insignificant. I was targeted. And then it hit me, that word - I was targeted. For years I was invisible, both my choice and otherwise. You can't hit an invisible target. Had I really developed into a whole woman, a powerful woman that someone would want to take down? My nervous breakdown became an enigmatic breakthrough.
After a few days I pulled myself together and accepted my lessons: I knew who I was. I had to be OK with the fact I may be the only one who knows. I couldn't make anyone look into my heart. If I defend myself it appears that I am guilty. Pick and choose the most suitable people to surround myself with. Listen to my body as it warns me against serious harm. My own growth, no matter how slow or faulty or tedious, is worth every bit of blame if it checks my intentions and leaves me better than how I arrived. If I am targeted then I have something worthy of tearing down.
I can't say that I will never try to pulverize an appliance box with my bare hands again but I do know this: The next time I am targeted by weakness disguised as cruelty I will not crumble. Instead, I will stand tall -- smile -- and realize that I must be doing something right to deserve such a dishonorable attack. And then I will gently say, "I'm going to pray for you", because people who are hunting down rising girls really hate that. And then after turning it over to God I will walk away with a covertly positioned double-fingered fuck you applied with feverish finger pumping, squinty eyes and a lower lip bite because that's what makes me feel better. Better the 'secret double-fingered fuck you pump' than my ever-loving sanity. My worth is no longer up for grabs.
I said fuck.
So much has come to fruition this year and I have spent hours upon hour rejoicing, especially in my car with the tunes pumping and the sun meeting me through the glass. 2012 was a crash course of sorts for letting go of the very last bits and pieces of a Pretty/Ugly past. That piece of pottery has been pasted together so many times but never stopped from crumbling. Like a trail of bread crumbs back to the past, I would find shards of clay that looked like the girl I used to be in the unlikeliest of places. 2012 buried them. I long to share my world with you through the stories that have created it. 2013 has sat on my shoulder with it's feathers unfurled singing a very sweet song that always ends in yes. 2013. Let's fly!