I am no master of mental health. The thought hits as loud as a gong as I tread barefoot—lightly but quickly—across the super-fluffy bath mat, searching for a towel. It’s in moments like these, alone and freshly showered, that I find myself at war with my own thoughts. This realization comes as a defense, an act of self-compassion against the inner critic that demands perfection.
My mind keeps gnawing on my conversation with Kristen and her insightful comment about strong feelings and thoughts: “Acknowledge it, and say, oh, there it is again.” Her nearly interrupting reply to my concern about self-sabotage—*“That may be exactly what you’re doing”—*stopped me in my tracks.
Self-sabotage hides in our blind spots. It’s a mindset that undermines the foundation of our well-being and creates sinkholes where stability once stood. Isn’t it strange how we can harm ourselves without even realizing it? I trust myself, and yet, when I isolate myself in certain mindsets, avoid talking about what’s troubling me, or fear others’ reactions, I know I’m not doing well.
In a shaky voice that surprised even me, I told Kristen how I was feeling—my concerns, like a detective sharing case details. I value her perspective, not just because she cares about me, but because she knows my history and can see situations more objectively. I need that. I need her. Without it, I can cycle endlessly—wash, rinse, but no dry cycle. That’s when I notice the weight of what’s left undone.
Earlier, I came across a Facebook support group post from an anonymous therapist sharing that they were behind on writing over 300 notes. I felt the weight of their words, the judgment, but also the relief of realizing I was in a better place. Looking over my shoulder at the two lone SOAP notes I still needed to finish, I felt grateful.
Is it okay to compare my lack of misery to theirs? To hold up both perspectives and see the good spot I’m in? I remember a time when I hadn’t tended to forty or fifty notes, and the chaos reached a hoarder-like level. The resulting panic and neglect pushed me to change. I created a system: for every twenty minutes of work, I rewarded myself with ten minutes of The Boys. The action-packed suspense and drama became my escape and incentive.
The key was brief. Turning off the show after ten minutes was the hardest part—but it worked. That discipline kept me moving forward, transforming a daunting task into something manageable.
Part of the toughest aspect of steering our mental health in a positive direction is holding ourselves accountable. The dilemma is that I don’t have to, yet I need to. But I want the richest experience out of life, and for how short it is, I’ll continue to pick myself up off the ground, brush myself off, and get back in the race.
Because ultimately, the hardest battles are the ones worth fighting.
As always, I love you.
Love, Me
Going On 40 