Existentialism
A few weeks ago, I sat up all night petrified that I was going to die by morning. My frantic thoughts and baseless fears compounded on top of each other and by the time I peeled back all the layers of adrenaline, morning had come and I hadn’t died. I didn’t even know panic attacks could manifest that way.
This isn’t my first existential crisis. That wasn’t the first time I’ve grieved versions of myself that slipped out of me without permission. But it was the first time in a long time that my emotional experience metastasized into a physical one, and I spent the last couple of weeks trying to unravel what the hell was happening to me.
I used to be better at pretending. I could fit in anywhere with just about anyone. I could pour myself into somebody until I was empty and find a way to refill for them overnight. I used to have a recurring dream about a burning house, and even though I knew it was empty and about to collapse, I kept running back inside.
I blinked and years have elapsed. I have dreams in which I can sense someone stalking me from miles away. I can hear them enter my home, I can see my bedroom door creak open, and for the life of me, I cannot move. It takes weeks to recover from pouring myself into somebody, and not only can I no longer pretend to be anyone, I don’t even know how to be me sometimes.
There’s a loneliness to moving through life's phases that hardly anyone openly admits. Time moves so fast but the days are so long. How is everyone making such big decisions? What happened to the girl who could do anything? I find comfort in knowing I’ve changed, but my brain tricks me into believing it’s for the worse.
I’ve read that finding joy in the little things is key in overcoming a stint of existentialism. I enjoy the ambient sound of the morning news, the way my dog’s paws smell after a bath, a chilly morning draped in fog, and a red wine so dry it sucks the moisture out of my mouth. I stopped pretending to care about sports and I’ve started saying “no, thanks” to food, plans, or opportunities I know I wouldn’t enjoy. I’ve let go of my crippling, irrational fear of things that I now find beautiful: whales, heights, sharing my bed. When I lie wide awake, untangling anxiety while my husband sleeps next to me, I count his breaths instead of sheep.
None of these little things meant anything to me five or six years ago. So many idiosyncratic parts of who I am have only just developed. How wonderful is that?
