Decompressing from a sucky day...this is really for me, not for anyone else.

I lost it at work today...not as in lost my temper, but lost control of myself emotionally. I HATE it when I cry at work. It does not happen often, maybe once a year at most, but today was the day. Several weeks worth of stress bottled up inside decided that it just had to come out.

I'm in a meeting. I am butting heads with someone. I raise voice at my colleague, my eyes welled with tears. Colleague recognizes I'm about to blow, and asks her employee to excuse us for a few minutes (we're meeting in her office). Employee (also good friend of mine, does that make it more embarassing or less?) leaves. Colleague is frustrated with me, as I am with her, but realizes I am in a very bad place. We talk through it. This goes on for well over half an hour. She leaves me in her office to gather my composure. I realize after about 5 minutes that this is not going to happen easily. It is the lunch hour now, so I stumble to my desk hoping not to run into anyone, head down. I get to my desk, and my colleague pops her head in to let me know my boss will be looking for me, she has just had a discussion with him and has made him aware that I need some support on this project. Oh lovely. He has been my boss for 2 weeks. It is WAY too early for him to see me cry. I grab my jacket, thinking I will duck out for a walk and get it together before he hunts me down. Too late, I exit my cubicle and even with my head down, realize that he is headed straight for me. I turn my pathetic, puffy-eyed face away from him, mumble that I'm having a rough time right now but I'll be back shortly. This humiliating encounter makes me even weepier. I finally make it outside. It is a beautiful day, my favorite kind...crisp, sunny fall day. Wish I could enjoy it. I walk, mind racing. I am still unable to regain my composure. I am walking past homeless folk, business folk, young folk, old folk, unable to quit crying. And realizing full well that I have no business crying when some of these folk have much more serious struggles than I right now. That doesn't help though. I walk until I can no longer think through my work issues. Ah, maybe now I can get myself together. No, that doesn't happen...I walk past Obama signs, past McCain signs, and think about the current situation in this country, and worldwide. I worry about the outcome of the election next week. And, thank you laggin, the phrase I wouldn't allow myself to question when I read it on her blog a couple of weeks ago..."What if I'm wrong?" regarding my presidential candidate of choice. This troubled train of thoughts goes on a while, still weeping intermittently, until the next set of worries makes its way into my consciousness...Why haven't we saved more for college? What will we do if something happens to me? Why haven't I purchased more life insurance?... Once the financial troubles have drained me of tears and energy, it's on to the next set of troubles. You get the picture. I don't think I've been on this bad a ride, where I am utterly unable to gain control, in a long time. On a work day. In the middle of the day. I can't even consider going home, since I commute with someone and I don't have a car with me. D*mn this trying to be green! And d*mn these monthly hormones, while I'm d*mning things. Early menopause, where are you?

I do finally make it back to work. Was really only a 50-minute walk, but it felt like both an eternity and a blink. I send an e-mail apology to my boss, telling him I hope to be ready to discuss in an hour. In 1'20'', I feel stable enough to go to his office, but warn him that I can only talk about this project, and not about anything bigger, as my emotional control is tenuous at best. He doesn't act embarassed (for himself or for me), thank god. I do not cry, and it is actually a very good conversation, and I feel much better, an hour later.

I can tell I am done crying. I used it all up. This has been building longer than a couple of weeks. This has been building since the former boss left 6 months ago. I get home and get big hugs from Pinky and Curly. Ahh, I needed that. Pinky inspects my face, asks if I've been crying. I can't deny it, my eyes are so puffed. Later, he looks at me again, asks if I've cried again. Enough, I say. Enough about my face. It's just still puffed from the workout it got earlier. He hugs me tight again. He's good that way.

This is unfortunately how I operate--I bottle it all inside until it blows, then experience the meltdown, promise myself to keep things in perspective moving forward, and then start the whole cycle all over again. I am exhausted. But tomorrow is a new day. I will be stressed out, but I will not break down. And if it half as beautiful a day as it was today, I will take a walk at lunch, and this time I will enjoy the sight, the smell, and the sound of the autumn leaves I love.

This is for Rowan. Not my writing; in fact, found in an exercise book (Pilates, specifically) now gathering dust on my shelf, but this paragraph(s) I remembered...

"It is an average Sunday, a day off. I wake early. My eyes jolt open, my mind already jostling with ideas, plans, needs, desires. Relax, I tell myself. It's Sunday. But wild horses cannot keep me still. In fact it is with the manic surge of wild horses that I bound from bed, tug on my clothes, and bang an elbow on the edge of the dresser, barely registering the pain. One thought I have is about the backyard. It is the dead of winter, the ground is frozen under six inches of snow, but I want to be, have to be, outside. I pull on my boots, yank on my coat. It is 8 AM--my day off--and already I'm in a race against time.

In the backyard I stomp around taking measurements, too swift to be accurate. I come back inside, make coffee, and have a new elated thought. I need a drafting ruler and tear open the junk drawer to look for one. The drawer is a mess. Impulsively I take everything out, determined to set it in order. The hammer and the paint-can opener belong in the basement. As I take them downstairs I remember that the kitchen wall needs painting. Today I could do it--I have the energy to do it. Why not walk to the paint store, stuff the quart can in my knapsack, and return home with the paint on my back?

Meanwhile what did I come downstairs to do? I bound back upstairs thinking, that's it: I want hedges, not fences; and I pull on my boots to go outside to measure. Once in the backyard I suddenly remember that I need to put in two more paving stones to complete the path I started last fall. I hurl myself to the shed, half flying: truly, I am barely able to keep my feet on the ground. Flinging open the shed door, I rip out the shovel and stop dead in my tracks. I am furious: the ground is frozen!

Does this manic dance sound like the beginnings of a breakdown? Do I truly believe I can fly? My doctor suggests Ritalin to bring my body and my mind to rest. But I have always refused. As a friend once said to me, why take drugs when you can spin through life six steps ahead of everyone else? Thankfully I have learned to use exercise--and breath--to tranquilize my manic dance. "

That is sooo not me. I wish I had half this woman's energy. Manic lethargy might better describe how I seem to go through life. I know, careful what you wish for. If nothing else, the writing may help me to empathize with those that experience the manic dance. I may have one of those living in my house right now, but I think it's still too soon to tell.

First attempt

Since I may well never do this again, or at least possibly not 'til after Halloween, I'll decorate with one of my all-time favorite Halloween pics. Why am I doing this? I do not have time for this!