I think that lately I've been somehow dropping pieces of myself places. Loosing track of this or that and those things that make me push forward and as a result, I've exhausted myself searching for the things I've lost track of. The trouble is, I am not even sure what bits of myself I misplaced.
I had a few strange anxiety attacks in which I could not catch my breath and was completely not myself--insecure, worried, without direction, unclear and confused. I know, I know, my mental health is important. But, in retrospect, I think these moments of complete other person-ness needed to happen to shake me back to myself.
I wasn't ever going to share all that. I promised myself I would not. But, that was the non-authentic Trish promising. Me, well, I share things. I am honest and true about who I am. I am confident and comfortable and humble and broken and fixable and I am not scared to tell my story.
I have prayed about this for the past couple weeks. And funny thing, for those same couple weeks, I've felt like I've had nothing to write about because I was avoiding writing about the things that were right there. And even funnier, tonight when I sat down I was going to write about something else entirely. However, when I started to type I ended up sharing something I really did not intend to share.
So, cat's out of the bag, friends.
These anxiety attacks happened in moments when I felt like I had no idea who I was. It is not to say I did not know my name or my home or who I was on paper. It was like what I said at the beginning--I felt like I lost track of myself and I wasn't sure what it was about myself I had lost track of. I am not sure why this all happened. Life is stressful. Growing older is stressful. Working is stressful. Having a home is stressful. Parenting is stressful. Marriage is stressful.
Everything is stressful and as such, there are a myriad of things that one could pile on and panic about. I guess my body and my brain and my soul decided enough was enough. And it was awful. The more I thought about breathing, the less able I was to do it in a calm, focused way. Instead I did weird rote tasks like folding towels or washing radishes. Eventually, after focusing on the mundane, I was okay.
I talked to my husband about my fears--rational and irrational. I told him I just did not feel like myself. And while, I think at first he was not getting it, he did finally get it. He's held me tight and secure ever since. It is that love and security that reminded me about who I was. I wasn't the panic or the anxiety or the other-person-ness.
This isn't to say that love cures our mental illness or our hard times. But, being seen for who we are and being loved for it, just remind us of our real person. And his love, reminded me to love myself as well. Self-love is an important part of all of this.
I will always have to work on myself; but at least I know now, to work on the right self, instead of the other one.
I am alright, just so you know. Better than alright, actually, I am myself.
Thanks for reading. Thanks for loving me, friends.