Usually It Is

I’m discombobulated. Toilet paper is strung from the sole of my foot, my shirt’s on backward, and I’ve got black eyeliner streaming down my face. It’s nothing a little writing, an NCAA March Madness game with the Gonzaga Bulldogs, and some evening crickets drifting through the windows can’t handle.

I’ll straighten back out. It’s just life—and life’s pleasant surprises reminding me I don’t have it all figured out.

I’m feeling vulnerable. A little like a raw potato—unbaked and inedible. I want to be ready, julienned and whatnot, but I’m not. No butter, sour cream, or chives for this not-yet-ready spud.

The failing game hits me hard. As a mother, friend, wife—and for myself—the balls dropping on the floor feel detrimental, life-ending. But they’re not. And I’ve got this. And yadda yadda yadda.

I’m way too involved in what kind of defense Gonzaga is running. At first, it was a flexed zone, where each player covers a portion of the court, but as Texas moved the ball around, it shifted more into man-to-man, each player picking up and defending one person.

I’m grateful for the skill set basketball gave me. That highly competitive culture meant learning from an ex-NBA player during my freshman and sophomore years of high school—Swen Nater, if you’re interested. His daughter, Valerie, had moved to Enumclaw to be part of a small, quiet town with a strong basketball program. That was us, I suppose.

It’s cool to have had such experienced people around to learn from.

Lying on the couch is hard these days. The off-white cushions are something I could probably wash later this season. It’s tricky being barefoot in the yard, then coming inside to relax with my feet up while trying not to soil everything.

After someone I know listed their triggers and shared them with me, I’ve been doing the same. Little things—tiny details I notice myself reacting to but haven’t labeled—are getting called out.

One of them is sending a message that isn’t replied to (I know I’m guilty of this!). The stakes feel high, like I’m trying to make a good impression without messing it all up. It’s an impossible ask, and yet I juggle those barbed hooks like there’s some outcome other than piercing myself

Naming the trigger usually helps diffuse it. And then, once calmer, I can reshape the story—from a sense of powerlessness to power, for example, or from worthless to enough.

I like to tell myself whatever it is is temporary and that I’ll eventaully will be okay. Because usually it is.

Love, Jaclynn