Today was a “crazy” day; not “crazy” busy, not “crazy” good, just crazy.
Some days are like that, especially since I stopped using chemicals to block feelings. It doesn’t happen often; not nearly as often as it used to, but it does happen. It comes without warning, and without reason.
I feel it as soon as my head leaves the pillow, while remaining ensconced in a cloudy murk that makes everything just a little more difficult. Sound seems muffled, and my vision unsure, as I try to focus on too many things at once. Dressing for work becomes a chore to be completed as quickly, and with as little effort, as possible, as I shrug on the first thing I lay my hands on, and barely notice stacks of fabulous shoes on the way to my sneakers. I give a passing glance to a wall-sized mirror while brushing my teeth, and twirling my hair into a clip atop my head. The curling iron remains cold.
I trudge into the next room, content in my decision to embrace my lack of affect.
My day progresses in much the same manner as any other, with one difference, obvious only to me. On days like this, it is as though I am of two minds. There is the side of me who cares about nothing, who efforts to speak, while noticing, with some incredulity, the rhythmic, slow, even, effortless act of breathing.
The other side watches her, labeling her as “ugly” while giving her permission to remain so, for as long as necessary.
As you might expect, patience is not a virtue easily exercised on days like these. And, as so often seems to be the case when I am least capable of paying attention, challenges become more frequent.
The voices in my headset seemed more dim-witted than usual today. A snarky coworker managed to get most of one hand under my skin before I noticed, and bit back my next equally obnoxious response. As the workday ended, I found myself alone with a person whose political views could not be more different from mine; and, she was itching for a fight.
“I heard an interesting point of view the other day about Obama’s healthcare plan…”
She spoke to my sweatshirt covered back, as my face was buried, dully, in a computer monitor, giving me the opportunity to shift my features into an attentive mask before spinning, slowly, in my chair.
I listened, as in measured, saccharine tones, she shared the views of one of her favorite right-wing talking heads. My legs were crossed, as were my hands, allowing the serenity in my face to spread composure on my mind.
When it was my turn to speak, I appreciated her argument before explaining its mistaken context. My words were succinct; spoken calmly, leaving no room for further argument; and the side that watches congratulated silently.
It wasn’t until later, as I sat in shopper-enhanced traffic, that a swell of recently unused, yet remarkably familiar feelings, filled me, and with them, the realization of how, despite my inertia, I had overcome this day. Before taking the proffered chemical pathway to non-feeling, I had managed my emotions with acceptance. As is the case with most things practiced over time, the ability had been there when I most needed it, and the feeling of accomplishment brightened both sides of my fractured mind. I had gotten through what could have been a very difficult day with only a modicum of discomfort that was appeased, for the most part, by avoiding mirrors.
I rolled into the grocery store parking lot on a cloud of self-acceptance that drew a hint of a smile upon my otherwise colorless face. Gratitude had spread emotion just beneath my skin, as I would realize while standing in the self-checkout line with others whose needs were minimal.
A boy occupied the space in front of me. I studied his anxious expression as he monitored the movements of those at the check-stands in front of us. The pillows riding his flawless cheeks told me he was probably about the same age as my son. Cradled carefully in his arms were eighteen styrofoam-covered eggs and two generically-wrapped packages of chemically prepared cheese-food. Tears came to my eyes as I realized I was looking at his dinner, while my son awaited pizza delivery inside our warm, carefully decorated home. I turned away, unwilling to show him my pity.
When I turned back, the boy was moving forward, hesitantly, with one eye over his shoulder; prepared to be deemed unworthy. I shoved him forward without moving, envisioning my son’s face above those precious eggs, and when he reached the counter, I saw it; a single, small container of the very best brand of chocolate milk, and, this time, my tears came with a smile.
© Copyright 2007-2008 Stacye Carroll
Are We There Yet? 
