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 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.