Fear is Not the End of This

The new week is upon us, for better or worse!

I had a really pleasant and very quiet weekend. It was extremely restful, and although I texted with a bunch of people, I didn’t push myself to do anything especially social. That was good for me, for the most part.

I was able to resist doing any work at all, besides my homework which was due last night. I worked on my crossword puzzle, played video games, watched movies, read (in little bits), and did a little cooking and a little tidying up.

This morning brought one major stressor for me, because I had to go and get a small cavity filled. Maybe that sounds to you like no big deal, but I’ve been incredibly lucky throughout my life. This is only the third filling I’ve ever had in my life, and the first that has been without Kellie there offering support. I just don’t have enough experience with dental work to not be incredibly scared whenever I need anything done at all.

I appreciate all my family and friends who did their very best to reassure me this morning. You were all 100% correct, and I took all of your advice to heart simultaneously, and I survived that procedure with almost no (physical) pain. I didn’t enjoy it, but I survived it, and that’s good.

I’ve been thinking for the past few days about how our human brains like to see patterns. It’s something that often serves us well, like when we’re trying to determine what is a safe environment and what is an unsafe one. It’s the system that makes puzzles appealing to some of us, or also the system that helps us learn the types of people we get along with better than others.

Obviously, as with so many things, this pattern-seeking system doesn’t always work in our favor. When we make split-second decisions about people who are “good” and “bad” people, that mental shortcut can make us dislike or not give the benefit of the doubt to folks who aren’t like us (so maybe we’re talking about those who have different genders or races or socio-economic statuses from us). This pattern-seeking instinct sometimes also goes haywire (such as in folks who have PTSD) and makes them see threats everywhere they look, which is not pleasant.

The way this most applies to me is when it comes to my feelings of loneliness and isolation. I’ll make a few points at the outset, here:

• I know that it makes perfect sense for me to feel lonely, since I’m now alone after having spent most of my time with Kellie for thirty years.

• I know that I have lots of people who love and care about me.

• It’s not an issue of not having anyone who reaches out, either: in any given day, at least a few people always check in, and sometimes far more than a few.

The actual issue, though, is one of perception. By that I mean it’s not a real problem, it’s a perceptual one. I can literally put down my phone rather than answering two or three or four people’s messages, and simultaneously be consumed by feeling completely alone. I know I’m not without connections, and I know I’m cared-for and loved. I know I’m not alone in the universe, just in my house (and that’s only if you don’t count Coco and Ivy).

But in those moments, at least, I feel like I’m all alone. That’s not a huge issue by itself, because we feel all kinds of emotions we like and don’t like during the course of a regular day. When it gets really overwhelming, though, it feels like I’ve always been this lonely and like I’ll always be this lonely. It feels like being at the bottom of a well that will only get deeper. It feels like there’s no point in reaching out to anyone, because it’s like putting a band-aid on a gushing wound. It feels like everyone else has their people but I do not, and will not, and that I shouldn’t even put any effort into it.

The thing is: That’s not true. It’s my mind playing tricks on me. I am not alone without someone talking to me in some way for more than a few waking moments per day. I often wake up in the morning and find a message or two waiting for me, and those messages are so needed and so valuable in my life. I just went back and counted, and across the last 24 hours, I’ve heard from 32 different people via text or messenger, plus others via email. I’ve had three or four phone calls with a few different people. I have far more folks who keep me in their hearts now on an everyday basis than I probably ever have! But that still doesn’t stop me from moments, several times a day, when my mind tells me I’m completely alone.

What I’ve been trying to do for the past several days is consciously push back against these instinctive bad thoughts. I’ve been trying to conceptualize these thoughts as temporary and transient, too. I will not feel this lonely for more than a few minutes, probably. It will probably go away in just a little bit, if I can just hold on. If I’m not able to convince myself through logic that I’m not un-cared-for, I’m hopeful that I can convince myself through logic that I can just wait it out.

If you’ve reached out to me in some way and I haven’t gotten back to you, it might be because I’m busy or hyperfocused on something. It might be because I’m sad. It might be because I’m taking a nap (like today). And it might just be that it feels too hard to respond, because it’s just too challenging a task to deal with in that current moment. I’d ask for your grace on this, please—if you don’t hear back from me on something, nudge me again! Call me again! Text me again!

I know that feels like more work on you than on me, and I promise I’m trying to make these relationships reciprocal (that’s all a part of my long-term plan). I won’t always be in an acute state of grief (I hope) and so I’ll have more capacity someday (I hope). But for now, I may need more nudges from you than usual.

Are there things that you’ve been struggling with that are similar to this, I wonder? Do you tend to believe that actually-transient things are permanent? Have you had any luck at figuring out how to defeat this instinct? If so, I’d love to hear about your experiences with this, as I try to find my way through the oft-tangled thicket in my own mind.

Thanks for being there, thanks for reading this, and thanks for every bit of your care and love.

XOXO,

Matt