We’ve all heard it. Heck, we’ve all said it:
“You choose your attitude.”
“What you put out comes back to you.”
“Thoughts become things.”
And on and on.
And d’you know what? MOST of the time, I really do believe that stuff. I really do.
Most of the time.
But how do you go back to that frame of reference when circumstances in life have left you feeling so tired, so beat up, so discouraged, so blue, that that frame of reference might just as well be on Pluto?
It’s no secret I have depression, controlled most days with happy yellow pills. I would love to not take them, or not have to take them, but for now, they are my best friends.
And because of my best friends, most days, I can be like Wonder Woman and her super-power wrist bands, fighting off anything yucky.
Lately, though, the batteries on my super-power wrist bands must be dead. I just can’t hear anything bad right now.
But, and here’s the thing, I HATE asking for help. Hate it. Hate. It. And I HATE venting/dumping/unburdening whatever it is I’m going through on people I love or who love me. I don’t want to burden them, or make my problems, their problems. Or worse, have them tell me their problems so that I know they know what I’m talking about? And then I’ll take on their problems too!! (My back just tensed even typing that!)
Okay, you’re thinking. Go talk to a stranger. Go to therapy. See a counsellor. I get that. I’ve done that. And I liked it. But actually finding a therapist with whom I am comfortable? Not so easy. The last one I went to made me feel I was in a principal’s office. Hard, straight-back chair, no pillows, no arm-rests, no tissues. She sat behind her desk and looked at me (in my mind) disapprovingly. And when I would curse? Oh, dear goat. You would think I just kicked her ferret.
Not good. So now I’m a little gun-shy, so to speak.
I REALLY want to get back to believing those happy statements.
So, I’m dumping my woe into the interwebs, so that I can let it go. Sorry to be a debby-downer.