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  • Writer's pictureMelissa


I woke up in a haze; I’d been in one all weekend.

But I knew I was equipped.

I’d get out as soon as I was ready.

I dug into my toolbox and tried to dispel the fog. I dutifully sat down and tuned in. I conscientiously applied my skills, a whole smattering of them.

I grounded myself. I identified parts. I found them in my body. I conversed with them. I found more parts. I was compassionate. I invited them to share with me what they wanted.

I even found a tiny timid ball of sadness, hiding, but causing quite the sulking ruckus.

I blocked everything out and focused on just that.

I couldn’t hold onto it.

I tried mindfulness.

I breathed.

I welcomed it.

But it eluded me.

I decided to give it space.

I tried to just identify triggers.

My mind was a blank.

And then the haze came right back, only foggier .

And now my head hurts and everything is a mess and I’m just lost, not only in the maze of my brain, but in this entire maze called life.

I feel like I’m doomed.

Like I could never get out of a cloud without my therapist’s help.

Like they come out of nowhere, with no rhyme and no reason.

Like the more I try to play this game of feeling and naming and putting a finger on what’s going on with me, the more lost I will get; the more complex the maze becomes; the more dense the haze becomes. The more I pound against the doors, the more they will prove to be false doors leading to nowhere.

Until I’ll just sit down in the corer, rummage in my bag until I find the only tool that seems to help today — another bag of onion Bissli — and give up on ever being mentally okay.

Or hope for someone to find me.

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