When It Rains It Pours Babygirl

Lately I keep calling myself crazy and I am worried I am starting to believe it. 

Growing up I dealt with sadness. “You have to start thinking differently,” my mom would say. She was a therapist, how could she be telling me that I had any control over it? She wasn’t a Republican. She wasn’t a mental illness denier. Sure we lived in a conservative area, but she had helped so many children. How could she be so invalidating? It baffled me, and we would often fight about it. 

Getting older, sometimes you realize you just did not understand something. She wasn’t saying that I could tell myself I wasn’t depressed and then I wouldn’t be depressed. She was saying that if I continued to repeat to myself how depressed I was, it would last longer. Something like that. 

When I was young, in an attempt to love my body I would both think and say positive things about myself even if it meant I bit my cheek . Unfortunately, it started to work. I was upset about this. I was lying to myself and believing it? Not just believing it, but eating it up. Eating it up to the point of making YouTube videos about it (don’t look them up, you won’t find them). Obviously this was a long journey and not a sweet, simple one, but I understand now more than ever what my mother meant. If I walk around thinking of only how sad I am, why would I feel any other way? I sometimes wonder how it took me so long to understand that. I’m the girl who says my body is my religion. I trust it more than anything and all of that is rooted in muscle memory! Processing words and ideas is also a part of muscle memory. Duh Kate…

Now I’m 24 and I am walking around saying I’m a hysterical woman. Pack it up! All the men have been right all along! We are all crazy in our hearts! We are not sound to lead! (Actually, even if we were proper hysterical I still think we’d make better leaders…) I refer back to the FOUR times I had to read The Yellow Wallpaper at Emerson College and I connect to Mary and that damn room more than ever. In response to having more life experience or whatever I think I have convinced myself that because I “know myself so well” I have the power to make the right choices. I know what I want, I know what I need, I chase joy! Blah blah blah. While all that may be true, I am analyzing my decisions rather than feeling them. And when you analyze your decisions, you no longer know what you want or what you need or what brings you joy because you lose touch with what is telling you that—your body.

Now, I realize that even me writing this is insinuates I am still analyzing things, but to some extent that will not change. I have been put in the box of “overthinker” since I was little and I’ve chosen to sit down. My feet have sunken in, there are big bolts going through the tops of my feet, my body is turning to wood or the box is turning to flesh—think of it however you wish. Basically, I am in that box and that won’t change but the box is very transportable! 

~ 

My best friend in LA has moved, my mom visited which means I had to say goodbye to her, everything at work is changing, and I just moved apartments. Almost all of the change in my life is because other people are making big choices. I am simultaneously disrupted by this change, yet bored because it’s not my change. I sobbed and sobbed and wished to run. Instead I tried to make a big change and regretted it. I literally just need to get outside and nibble a mushroom, which I can actually do. I ordered mushrooms from a man who sent me a google doc. My google doc used to be filled with essays—academic and creative alike. Now, less so. I have been nibbling on these mushrooms instead of tripping. Maybe it’s a waste, but I think I am having fun in the evenings. 

I have never found weed to make me paranoid, but after the other night I can never say that. In my new apartment my rental manager lives right across from me. This is new to me, but I like him. He has long hair and tattoos and smiles often. He went to fist bump me goodbye the other day and I did not realize until it was too late. I will think of that for at least a few more days. Now, while he is chill, he has told me twice now that he can smell my smoke right near the entrance of the building. He was nice about it and I apologized and said I will go outside in the future. Won’t happen again. Last night I took my joint outside, smoked a little too much too fast, and came back inside. An hour later I hear him mumble “Oh you’re kidding” and I swear I heard him spray something. My face flushed. I thought somehow my joint had wafted into the entry walls in the 2 seconds it took me to unlock my door. Now it was hitting his nose. This made me question my own scent abilities. In my mind he would bang down my door and yell at me. He would send me a mean text or leave a note saying I couldn’t live here anymore. For the next two hours I felt deeply on edge. I was truly convinced I had ruined my life at my new apartment that I love. I texted my mom for reassurance, and I reminded myself he is a grown man. If there is a problem he will say something and I can explain I was not smoking inside. We have had good banter thus far. He seems to like me. It would be crazy if he was angry at me… right? 

This afternoon I got a text about the broken intercom system. I’ve decided I should take a break from weed. 

Overall, I am starting to feel better though. The sun has been out. I am entertaining myself with new projects, I am keeping my apartment clean, taking hot showers, and throwing my phone away. If you see me make a podcast it’s not because I want to be TikTok famous, it’s because I just love to talk. 

~

I had a dream that I was on a dusty California cliff with my father. We were mountain biking and in my dream I knew I had done this part of the trail before, but this time I got scared. Once I stopped my bike, the edge started to crumble and I felt like giving up. I have always been freaked out by heights and the feeling I had in this dream was like the time I started climbing up a ladder to do a zipline and got so afraid that I had to come down. I had already been high enough off the ground to be scared, so I did not like my options—both resulted in fear, so I froze. But in my dream both feet were on the ground. The fear was coming merely from the potential of falling. With my legs straddling this bike, and a treacherous drop to my left I felt afraid of going back and also afraid of going forward. I felt panic set in and wished simply that I was not there. But, this was a dream and my eyes were already closed so I had no other option. My dad cheered me on, but I barely heard him. I could not see straight and I did not want encouragement. This was still a trail, so someone rode a bike up behind me and slammed into me. I do not recall feeling any impact, I just remember my back arched onto the weight of her chest. I woke up. 

I felt like I could’ve gotten more creative with that one. It felt like such an obvious metaphor. I am feeling scared of backtracking, not going anywhere, and but also of moving forward despite knowing I’ve done it before. It’s actually more dangerous to be stagnant in that scenario, but if you are going to be stagnant you are not going to have a choice eventually to move—after all, it’s a public trail, someone will come eventually.