I keep seeing this meme on Facebook and Twitter about now not being the time to learn a new skill, take up a new hobby, start a new side business (and I’m sorry, but I am so done with the idea that a second job is called a side hustle.)
Now is the time for radical self acceptance.
I sit at my desk at home, no makeup. I’m neatly dressed, my house is more or less tidy, I have a small to-do list for the day next to me. I’m largely ok. I am not feeding fear, at least most days, but I still feel fear. I guess, the good news, the upside of down, is that I know fear. I have lived with it before, in the ten days between my diagnosis and Gabe’s birth. In the time my mother lay dying. Every moment of every day since Andy was diagnosed. I am not going to be blithe and say that fear is a friend. It isn’t, it never will be. Somewhere in the last few years I’ve learned a bit of what Peema Chodron talks about when she advocates leaning into fear.
I had a panic attack on Saturday night. It was a bad one. I’ve had bad ones before, but I think the last one like this was probably the night of Gabe’s funeral. It lasted for a good 45 minutes, I wound up having to have a shower after, given that I started to vomit in the middle.
Everyone has a breaking point. Saturday was mine.
I’m not good at radical self acceptance. I’m not ok with the fact I broke that badly. It seems like at least the start of this might be to be honest.