When it comes to fight or flight, I usually like flight. Namely the kind of flight where I crawl under covers & eat cake & disappear from the world.
I don’t like to “deal.” Or face uncomfortable truths. I like to control & when I cannot hold power? I crumble with the hope of being rescued.
“What’s wrong with me?” I cried in therapy. “Why do certain things paralyze me yet leave others unfazed?”
This is the very core of my mental health, my heart-gut, my battle with postpartum depression. The overwhelming urge to control, coupled with immature coping skills. “So basically,” I closed my eyes & laughed sarcastically. “You’re telling me that I’m a control freak with a horrible personality.”
She laughed. Yes. “But no, not really,” she explains. “I think you just feel things strongly. You react strongly.”
It’s an exhausting way to live.
“My husband calls me ‘tenacious’ when he is being kind,” I said with a wry twist to the corner of my mouth.
“Exactly,” she smiled.