So, here I am,
curled up in another ball, on another floor, having another panic attack. I ran away. I ran away from where I was running away to. When I signed up for staying in Nassau to help take care of a family friend’s kids, I was running away from my present life. And now, here I am running away. Again.
I chose to travel because I want to be outside of my comfort zone, to see new and different ways of living, to expand my Self, something different that let’s me know I am moving forward, to learn who I am. Now that I am here–and uncomfortable–I don’t feel like I’m learning anything. I just feel like I’m fucking up and making poor choices.
As much as I hate to admit it, I made a couple of mistakes since coming here. And all the while I have felt very unsettled. And it’s my fault! I’ve never lived in someone else’s home under their set of rules. It’s…for lack of a better word…uncomfortable. The worst part is I chose this! And a sick twisted part of me likes it, because I know I’m getting stronger with each shitty thing that happens. It sucks!
As I have talked about here,
I hate failing, or, not doing things perfectly. It pains me when things aren’t just right. I have a severe level of anxiety over it. (You know that part in Lilo and Stitch where Lilo draws an outline of stitch on a piece of paper, and fills in a percentage of evil, that’s sort of how I feel about myself when it comes to anxiety.)
Communication can be my friend and foe to someone with anxiety. When things are going right, I love communicating. I love asking what is needed of me. And, I love hearing encouragement to keep doing well. But, when things are going wrong, I head for the hills, a fact I know about myself, a fact I work tirelessly to overcome. But, it is the hardest thing for me to reach out and say “hey, I fucked up” or “how can I improve next time.” My fear of hearing someone critique me. I can safely say, communication is my kryptonite.
Instead of having a difficult, but productive conversation with my employers about how to move forward after mess ups, I swept it all under the rug. It got to the point where there was a huge mound of dirt, and grime, and discarded stuff under this metaphorical rug. Not wanting to stare any longer at the pile of unspoken dirt, the pile I was refusing to sweep out and throw away, I ran. I booked a hotel for two nights, packed an overnight bag, and headed out. Once checked into the hotel room, I hardly left. I stayed curled up on a bed, completely in isolation, watching Netflix and YouTube videos in the comfort of my solitude. Not thinking. Not processing what had led me here. Just vegging. I felt safe. I was safe. Safe from judgement, expectations, and fear of kids barging into my room when I am naked.
Like all good things,
my two-day hiatus came to an end. Because hiding in a cocoon of hotel sheets isn’t where I want to live my life. Sure, it’s nice to feel that level of safety every once in a while, but that’s part of what I am trying to get away from. I am back where I am meant to be, out of my comfort zone. I have to get the broom and dust pan out, and, clean up what I left under this stupid, metaphorical rug.