My best friend Facetimed me yesterday. I didn’t pick up.
In my life, I’ve encountered several moments where I’ve had no desire to pick up the phone when someone calls. It’s not out of fear or anxiety or any of that bullshit. I’d just rather set up a time to meet for coffee or a hike or something. Spend quality time together. Avoid this dance of phone tag.
Yesterday, Aretha Franklin’s version of Let It Be came on while I washed the dishes. I don’t know how. The playlist I had picked was curated to uplift a mood because I felt stuck like syrup all day. But I cried right there in front of the plastic glasses and plates my husband and I bought because we’re too clumsy to have glassware.
Let It Be is always a tear-jerker. The original by The Beatles, was actually the song my dad and I danced to at my wedding. But this time I wasn’t celebrating a union with the love of my life and surrounded by family. I was alone, washing plastic ware and crying.
Before yesterday, I’d answer calls unwillingly. I’d feel guilty about not texting back right away. I’d let those intrusive thoughts circulate. I’d have alcohol to lessen the blow of judgment towards myself. I thought everyone hated me for not responding right away and answering calls. I thought something was wrong with me because I didn’t feel like having friends.
I am a self-proclaimed neurotic, obsessive, and sensitive person. Woody Allen’s deranged public persona aside, his role in Annie Hall is the exact dialogue I have in my head all the time. I let my mind carousel all day without resting. It makes me feel like I’m doing something. Everyone is incredibly nice to me and the humorous thing is I can’t tell if it is because of my personality or if it is because I’m married to the personality. I’ve spent time evaluating this. It’s not like I’m being invited to hang out alone. When I’m invited, so is my husband, and vice versa.
Yesterday I let myself be a mess. I let my neuroticism get the best of me. I barely even changed from my ratty sweatpants to the jean shorts I was going to wear. It was the illusion that I was going to be okay, so I made little promises to myself that if I got dressed up, the day could turn in my favor.
But, instead, I felt wildly rejected, by myself. I sat and listened to sad songs, I let the tears fall and most importantly I didn’t answer any calls. For the first time, I was honest with my “friends” and I texted them later explaining what had happened. I finished journaling and I meditated. But it was still there. The sadness. The heaviness and I didn’t know why.
I am a sucker for self-growth and learning. I feel like I always have room to improve, that I’m never done learning and I could always be better. But, this ideology can also turn against you. Everyone feels safe in a guise. Mine was in self-reflection. I took a whole day yesterday to sit with my feelings and you know what? I resisted. I tried for hours to distract myself from them. I made a To-Do List, I went on the same 3 apps. I tried to work out, I meditated I journaled I sat in silence. I waited for the answers to come to me. I did everything but breathe.
I don’t take up a lot of space, but my emotions do. I’m sort of like those rip-tide waves. The ocean could look so calm and perfect until you’re in it and a rip tide comes out of nowhere to keep you at a distance. I don’t know why I push people away, though I feel like I’m not alone. Adult friendships are hard, especially when there isn’t a track record of support.
I’ve looked at myself from all angles, I’ve let the narratives of healing and growing take over. I read all the books, I journaled, I did everything but cry. Until Aretha.
I think the whole urgency to heal and grow is filled with good intentions. I think in a lot of ways it is powerful. But, I also think too much self-reflection can be a dark void that can make it impossible to get out of.
The other day, my husband and I had a housewarming because we just moved back to Los Angeles. I wore wide-legged jeans and a polka-dot halter top. I looked okay, but I’d never really claim this because everything could always be better.
I’ve found that I am resistant to anything in the present moment. The outfits I picked become a wrong choice that will identify me for the rest of my life, texting is exhausting and calling is even worse. Social media is the lion’s den where all of these things culminate to make you feel less important. Less Annie Hall. Less sure of yourself.
It is so dry in our apartment because the ceilings are high and it doesn’t matter how much the outside is breezy, the air will never make it in and it will always be hot and humid. The fans are the background noise and the windows are always closed. The shades are pulled and the light hides behind them. I try to blend into the floor, I hear lying down and staring at the ceiling grounds you.
It wasn’t until I was called on the phone that I started to cry. Well, that and the serendipitous timing of Aretha. Sometimes I wish I had no friends, I just wish I could exist without the pressure to be someone for somebody. I had taken half of my day to wallow and I worried about everything.
I think a lot of times we think wallowing is bad. That crying and sitting in our feelings is something that needs to be fixed, wiped off, and embraced so that we can move on. But there is a distinct difference between wallowing and sitting in self-reflection, between being a mess and actively trying to fix something that seems broken.
Maybe we’re not pieces to put back together or we don’t need to journal to fix our feelings. Maybe we let our mind do acrobatics once in a while and let our intuition materialize. And maybe we start listening to it.
Constant self-reflection can be dangerous. It can make things seem worse than they are. It can put you in a state of never feeling enough. Always wanting to improve can be a symptom in itself. I’ve had to dig my heels in the dirt of wallowing to permit myself to be a mess.
Worming my way out of an oversized sweatshirt to feel something, I let all the thoughts come to me all at once. I found a gap between the good and the bad and I let myself sit there, like a Victorian woman on a Chaise with her hand to her forehead. Even my writings in my journal were turning black, and I remember the unusual state of being, the way I am, and allowing all of these people to tell me I am not finished yet. There’s something weird about this addiction to want to feel enlightened and whole. It makes you feel like you’ll never get there even if you’ve been there all along. It takes away all your successes and joyful moments and rotates you to see all the flaws of what could be better.
The song by Aretha ended long after I had finished the dishes. I sat there, holding my own hand, waiting for answers from within, trying to live in the moment. The real answers never came in some grand revelation. Crying in the daytime was the antidote to the exhaustion I felt from constantly trying to improve myself. Maybe I do enjoy friendship; I was just too exhausted from all the self-work to realize it