Tag Archives: escape from reality

Hot and Cold

“There’s no cure for hot and cold.” -Trungpa Rinpoche

I’m someone who gets seriously twitchy when I hear people talk about how they have 564 unread emails in their inbox or a sink full of three-day old dishes. I feel the need to take care of these trivial things the second that they come up, and having them waiting in the wings—unattended—leaves me entirely too anxious.

Although this OCD urge can be annoying, it makes me feel better knowing it’s taken care of “just in case” something else should come up. I feel it’s one way I can (kind of ) control the unpredictable nature of things.

For the most part, these behaviors are harmless. But what about the things that I—or you—do that sometimes create the uncomfortable things that we try to escape?

Anything done to excess becomes a way to numb out discomfort. While for some it might be drinking, shopping, etc., it’s no secret that for me those behaviors are exercise, routine and isolation.

When I get uncomfortable with something, my instinct isn’t to sit back and evaluate why I want to escape, but rather to simply escape. Quickly. I associate these routines with relief, but the problem is it’s never enough. Once that high is gone, I’m dissatisfied again and it becomes harder to sit with the most fleeting feelings of discomfort.

In other words, it’s a temporary fix for a permanent predicament—that everything’s always in flux.

And although we all come from different situations with varying levels of stress and responsibility, what we struggle against in our lives can be acknowledged as ordinary experience. People and situations are unpredictable and so is everything else.

Everybody feels the pain of not getting what they want or getting what they don’t want, and most of the time it’s not because we suck and just can’t get things right. It’s life, and we’re not the only ones who can’t keep it all together. It’s just that certain people have adopted flexibility instead of frustration.

It might not seem like it through some of my rants, but I’m getting better at this.

While I walk a very fine line between letting go of attachment and complete depressive disinterest, I’ve found that releasing myself from attachment to certain things has actually been freeing.

I don’t need much to be content, and when I take myself or others too seriously—and justify being annoyed with everything to the point that it makes me unhappy—it limits me to a narrow world of likes and dislikes and boredom. And trust me, I’ve lived there too long.

But I still have a long way to go.

Changing behaviors that have become instinctual and comfortable — even addictive — feels completely counterintuitive to contentment. I still have those things that I do to stay “safe” and escape and I still lose my shit when my routine gets thrown out of whack.

But another version of reality will always come up and when my ideas about who I am and who others are is fixed and cemented, it keeps me from accepting this change. It creates the frustration I try to escape and the cycle of self-abuse continues.

So no, and there’s no cure for hot and cold.

But we can sit with things a bit instead of rushing to change them. We can accept flexibility instead of frustration. We can be open to what each day bring—unless that day brings a sink full of three-day old dishes.

You can bet that those suckers are clean.

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Riding Out the Wave

The other morning I woke up to birds chirping and sunlight streaming through my blinds. Instead of contentment, I immediately felt that both were seemingly mocking me.

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I wanted it to be raining, to be dark, to have the universe send me a sign that it was okay to feel anything but sunny or happy and light.

Tempted to simply pull up the covers and block it all out—the sun, the sounds, the world—I knew that I wouldn’t, partly because I have a hard time being lazy and wallowing but also because I honestly didn’t have the luxury or the choice to do anything other than pull myself up and prepare for the day.

It went along as normal, and after the responsible things were all done I knew I could go one of two ways—self-destruction (common default) or self-care.

So I thought, “I should write. I should try and write something funny.”

I wanted to (attempt to) be funny, as writing those posts gets me out of my head and it stops me from feeling so shitty. Plus, people like to laugh or talk about themselves more than being faced with the reality of someone else’s struggles—me included.

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But sometimes the weight presses down and the funny is squashed under shit.  There’s not some “big event” that brings it on, which makes me feel even worse, like I don’t deserve to feel so numb and disconnected.

It simply sneaks up and bites me in the ass and I find myself longing for any kind of escape. It drives me to literally run myself into the ground as I try and run away from it all (an entirely separate post I’ll probably never publish.)

Anyway, I was still at my computer—trying for a “healthy” escape—and thought that maybe I should write some artsy post in which I replace the word “she” for “I” in a way to pretend that I’m really just being creative and not on the low end of the wave.

Well, I tried, and I failed miserably at that, too.

It was at that point that I decided that was a shit idea anyway. The reason I would be doing that wasn’t to be artsy, but rather to hide behind a mask in an effort to make myself look a little bit better than how I really was in that moment—seeing the sun but yet stuck in the dark.

So I ended up with this post, one I probably shouldn’t publish. It’s not funny, it doesn’t really have a theme—it’s just me oversharing a bunch of things with cute pictures from Hyperbole & a Half because they fit and I read people like pictures in posts.

But also because I know that when I get this way I narrow my world down to the bare essentials in an effort to make myself feel safe.

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That’s not good.

I reminded myself that this blog is important to me because it’s the one thing that’s allowed me to finally let people in instead of mistrusting them and blocking them out. So instead of worrying about what people think, I figured an emotional purge was a better than the alternative, so here you go.

And don’t worry.

This too shall pass, as it usually does. Sometimes in the same day I hear the birds and smile while 10 minutes later  I want to get out a pellet gun and mount the feathered bastard on the wall—metaphorically speaking of course.

I’m envious of those who don’t have to deal with this shit and can just be “okay” without so much effort, but that’s (my) life. And it’s one thing to be envious, but it’s another to be ashamed.

You should never be ashamed.

Unless you’re an adult who uses the word “adorbs” in conversation (topic of a future post.) 

Then all bets are off.

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