Sometimes when bad shit happens to good people, it can take a minute, a month, a year or beyond until life resumes to some sense of ‘normal’. In my case, I’m still in the month category – eighth to be precise – of recovering, trudging through, putting one stiletto in front of the other, moment by moment bullshit that I didn’t ask for but get to relive every day.
Being that I was already a tad absent-minded and every bit the stereotypical blonde prior to my bad shit, it’s a wonder that something like this has never happened to me until I was a grown ass woman as a short while ago, I actually ran out of gas about three blocks from my house.
You see, I am now often consumed by my thoughts as I go through the motions. I see someone talking to me but I’m not always processing what they’re saying. I know I should be practicing my once beloved hot yoga or jogging but being alone with my thoughts is sometimes unbearable to the point that I cry. Which means I’m feeling feelings. Gross.
Being that I’ve been diagnosed with severe stress, extreme PTSD and adjustment disorder (I know, I know, I sound like a dream woman!), I have no clue when or where something is going to be triggered. But I do know that I’m absent-minded as fuck, so I often fall down because I don’t notice the pothole, stairs, curb, drop off in front of me. Or forget to pay bills because, well, that means I have to keep track of something. In accordance with those symptoms, naturally I ran out of gas on a humid, blistering, Nashville morning while I was experiencing what could be described as an
intense tiny hangover.
As I puttered to a dead stop in front of a Nashville bus stop on a busy highway, I couldn’t help but get into a hysterical laughing fit. I’m an adult with eyes that missed the yellow ‘warning-you’re-about-to-run-out-of-that-stuff-that-makes-your-car-move’ and the incessant sound that accompanies the light. All I could giggle about is how 2016 has really been shaping up as one motherfucking humdinger of a year.
2016 has done nothing but make this chick run on nothing but empty – especially emotionally – it’s been exhausting. I’m out of gas.
While I was contemplating what the fuck a gas damsel in distress should do, my iPhone broke the silence and the woman whose voice I hate more than most anything asked me this:
A lot Suri. You can help me with a fucking lot.
Snapping back into my reality after 38 seconds of wallowing with Suri, the first person to come to mind in calling (although I knew there was a chance he’d be in a moonshine coma on a Sunday morning) was Camo. You know he’s the type of dude who could build an outhouse with a match and whatever else is in the back of his goddamn truck. And I was pretty sure he already had a gas can.
After making sure my chariot started – and thankfully it did – I hauled ass the nearest gas station.
While my gas tank took what felt like almost an hour to fill up, I started perusing around my shit show of an SUV in search of a diamond pinky ring that had gone missing. Much to my surprise, my personal luck tank was turning around.
I found the ring – along with what could have amounted to a large order of McDonald’s french fries under the driver’s seat.
Which got me to thinking about how I’ve been coasting on fumes through life the past 240 days and I started dwelling on the instances and folks who have helped me keep my fumes from fully being extinguished.
The more I thought about the non flammable Camo giving my car the liquid needed to work, the more I considered how much has been changing – even if it’s at a snail’s pace.
Easing myself back into the bedroom the only way I knew how…
Then Mr. Bear got extremely demanding, tired of restlessly trying to fight me for room on my leopard couch.
The way I ended back up in my heaven of a bed was by having a buddy spend the night who was a tad too intoxicated to drive home. Without thinking, I offered up my
permanent bed couch. And you know what? I may not have slept more than mere minutes but I was back in the bedroom saddle again.
Another quarter of my personal tank has been filled by Sunday nights being mani night again.
Mani Monday back in all of its glory folks.
Thinking about how lucky I am to have those around me keeping my primary tank as full as possible – and about the teeny, tiny baby steps I’m making are so easily overlooked by myself when consumed by a panic attack or go-to feelings of despair. While I can’t always help how I feel, I know the Grand Canyon I accidentally fell into January 1 of this year through no fault of my own, is something I’m slowly climbing out of (I say slowly because let’s be real…my nails are jewels, not tools).
Now it’s my turn to be the Fumegate Crusader. I’m heading to Iowa this week to assist Aunt Crazy Pants with whatever it is that floats her proverbial boat as she started her fight against that fucking illness called cancer last week.
However, I’m showing up with lighter fluid (and of course wine) to ignite this fight.
Here’s hoping that our fumes never run out and we’re lucky enough to always be surrounded by folks who want to keep our gas tanks full.
I’ve got your back if you’ve got mine.