I hate that I cried over a broken shelf.
I hate that I cried at a freaking David Letterman interview last night—I barely even cried at my own brother’s funeral. But here I am, crying at everything because, suddenly, the whole world is upside down.
Literally. I think about that probably 300 times a day. Do you? Doesn’t everyone? I freaking hate myself for it sometimes. And then I remember how silly that is. We are all going through it.
Tonight, I was fixing a perfectly fixable shelf and then I sat on it, and it broke, and I ruined it, and I couldn’t stop crying. And the thing is, it had nothing to do with the gosh-darn-mother-effing shelf.
The shelf was a f*cking metaphor for the rest of my goddamn life at this point. The way I’ve been feeling during this completely wild and unprecedented time.
The way you might be too.
The shelf was the straw that broke the camel’s back. The straw that broke my back, anyway. Everything is weird. Everything is off, and wrong, and I haven’t actually been dealing all that well with any of it to be perfectly honest.
I’ve been trying to. I’ve been telling people I have been. I’m okay, you guys, don’t worry! But have I been taking any of it well? Absolutely f*cking not.
And that’s okay.
I go through this thing that I think many people can relate to, where I don’t want to complain about anything. I don’t want to say I’m anything other than “great,” and I don’t want to say I need any help because I never want anyone to worry.
I always want to be strong. I always want to be okay. I always know that there are millions of people who have it far worse than me, and I feel guilty complaining about anything because of it.
But the thing is, life, as I knew it—as many of us knew it—literally disappeared overnight. So many things I was accustomed to were just gone, in a matter of days. And that’s hard.
It’s important to acknowledge that.
While it was happening, I was falling in love, so I don’t think I paid attention as much as I could have, but before I knew it, that love was gone too.
And I was left with just me. For the first time in years. Raw me. Alone me. Me, with no job, and no love, and no commitments, and no place to go or be.
It’s the scariest thing that’s ever happened to me. A blank canvas I’ve honestly been scared to start working on, do you know what I mean?
What if I paint the wrong picture? What if I start with the wrong color? More likely and most scary, what if I start, and I like it, and I ruin it, like everything else? How many more times can I start over again? How many times can any of us?
The world is weird. And I’ll be perfectly honest in saying that, lately, I hate it. I feel down, and sad, and lower than ever.
But I also feel that when times are weird, it is important and okay to acknowledge that. I have the tools I need to pick myself back up—many of us do. But it’s easier said than done. I know the things I’d say to any friend who came to me with all the same complaints.
So why is it so difficult to put into practice for ourselves?
I started writing this as I was spiraling. And as the words flowed out, I felt less of a need to. I’m a little weird. I deal with things a little weird, and you might too. And that’s alright.
The world is strange right now, and it’s perfectly okay to not be “perfectly okay” all the time. You know what, it’s fine to cry over a broken shelf if that’s the f*cking breaking point. It’s okay to cry over whatever the f*ck it is. Let it out.
And then let it go. That’s the important part.
Get so f*cking mad for 20 minutes. Hate yourself for a moment, and hate stupid Amazon and your neighbor and everyone else who wronged you, if you need to.
Get mad. Feel it.
And then put that stuff out on the curb come garbage night, and let it all go.
It’s going to be okay. It always is. That’s what I tell everyone. That’s what I truly believe.
Why is it so hard to say it to myself?
Why is that so hard for any of us?