I mimic other writers’ styles. I take a mini-challenge to the page, their a caricature propped on my shoulder, and I ask, What would you do next? It’s the novelty and stimulation I seek.
I once dated a 2-handicap amateur golfer. He was constantly tweaking micro-movements of his swing. Whether watching back video or standing in front of a full-size mirror, analyzing his swing repeatedly. I saw up close what someone at a wannabe-professional and competitive level did to maintain that sharp edge.
I feel this way also about mental health. Yesterday, I set the goal of observing my thinking during the day and found that most often I was thinking about something mental-health related.
Careful, I must be. There’s a sharp, saw-spinning, notched edge that grinds at us when we do things because we see a deficit in ourselves.
I got no deficit!
So when I get to pushing myself on the swing with a roughness of big green Hulk— I know I’m in a mindset that is focused on perfection rather than fun, playful freedom.
I write and I mental health because of what they’ve given me. They’ve provided meaning, support, and direction. To show up for them is the least I can do.
I’m playing with the idea of caring less and lowering how seriously I respond to certain situations. I find I get caught in this whirlwind of pushing the gas pedal in the middle of a storm. When the best choice is to pull my car out of a ditch and wait for it to pass.
What that looks like is giving myself permission to shelf the response. To leave it sit. Whatever it is will be fine without me picking up and staring at it and worrying about it and squeezing all the goo out of it.
This sounds like the cube I bought from Walmart that I’d massage its goo around in counseling sessions. Unfortunately, I got a little too handsy with it and crushed a hole, sending goo all over my pants and hands. That shit’s sticky as hell too.
Ok, gotta go!
♥ Jaclynn
Going On 40 