What the… as if the snow and cold temps weren’t bad enough, I went to make myself a mug of hot chocolate this morning only to realize the milk went bad. I’ve tried and tried to deny this is happening but I can no longer put off what I’ve been trying to fight for the past 3 weeks and 6 days. I guess this last straw only means one thing… ladies and gentlemen, I am officially in a funk.
And instead of sitting in a corner, crying uncontrollably, eating my hair, I thought I’d try to write myself through this thing. I would love nothing more than to write an uplifting story right now but I can’t. I simply can’t. Try as I might (and I have been trying for about 3 weeks now), I can’t seem to find too much joy in anything. That’s not to say that I’ve taken to wearing all black and responding to people in one word sentences. It’s just taking a whole-lotta effort to find the glass-half-full stuff in my world.
Funks don’t happen to me very often and even when they do, I usually only allow them to have a couple of days of my time. But I’m finding it awfully hard to shake it this time. Did I mention how much I hate it when folks publicly crank about how awful life is when, in fact, it ain’t all that bad? I mean, if I let myself be reasonable about this whole thing, I’d realize that the injustices and catastrophes in this world far out weigh my issues. But, alas, funks are not about being reasonable. They aren’t. They are an ‘all about you’ thing… or all about me, as is the current case. Funks are never-ending thoughts of ‘that’s not fair,’ ‘why me?’ ‘why now?’ ‘not again’ ‘how come my life can’t be as perfect as theirs?’ Funks make you want to believe that everyone else’s life is exactly the life you were supposed to have. Funks get us to believe lies about who we are or who we aren’t, what we’ve done, what we haven’t accomplished, if we’re good enough and, worst of all, that we’re not worth it —sidenote: not sure what ‘it’ is but funks are not very specific on naming ‘it’, they’re only good at making us feel worthless when it comes to having or being ‘it’— I hate feeling this way and thinking this way. I wish I could just turn it off. It should be that easy, shouldn’t it? I’m a very sensible woman. I know that funks are worthless and time consuming and are no good for my complexion. I know this. I KNOW THIS. Why can’t I shake it? Funks suck!
Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if there wasn’t so much crying involved. It’s horrible. And so inconvenient. I find myself fighting back the tears for just about every little thing. I’m at work working on a spreadsheet and the numbers 07-05-06 come up as sequential numbers I have to enter and suddenly my bottom lip is quivering. Why? you ask. Well, that happens to be the day we moved out of our home in Florida. I didn’t even know I remembered that was the date until today. —another sidenote: one more great thing about funks, all of a sudden, you have the best memory EVER— Usually I remember all of the bad stuff but apparently any memory that can make me long for the life I once had is also fair game.
For the record, funks do not limit themselves to just conjuring up memories that make you weep like a moirologists. Case in point, my 11 month old niece made a sound that kind of sounded like my name and, wouldn’t you know it, 2 seconds later I balled. You’d think she’d reenacted that one heart-wrenching scene Sally Fields did in that one movie (eh, you pick… there have to be a least a dozen to choose from). Just so you know, I am NOT watching any movies/tv shows that can add salt to my open emotional wounds. I have purposefully stayed away from romantic-feel-good-type entertainment as much as humanly possible. But it doesn’t matter. Can you believe I actually got a little misty eyed when they ran the Memoriam segment on The Talking Dead. True Story! Then there was this morning’s last ditch effort to find entertainment that would help to ease the funk in my attempt to find solace with music; music without any lyrics. That didn’t go so well. I tried listening to soothing, classical music only to find myself in a pool of tears at the end of the song. Turns out it was a Beethoven piece that goes by the name of “Pathétique.” Perfect. (insert staleface here)
This weekend I thought I’d try to make the most of this funk. I mean, if I’m going to go through it, something good should come out of it, right? With that said, I thought I’d try out this whole ’emotional eating’ thing people keep talking about. I realize it’s not a good thing for the majority of mankind to eat their way through a funk, but, given that I’ve lost a few lbs in as many weeks, can you see how I thought this might be a good idea? — one more sidenote, logic is not our friend when in funk mode— Here’s why that didn’t work out for me. I realized the reason why I lost a few pounds is because when I’m in a funk, the sight of food makes me nauseous. I didn’t make the connection until after I bought a pizza and wings and chips and some other stuff that I’m not gonna take the time to type out because just thinking about it makes me want to hurl. Geez Louise, I can’t even drown my sorrows in chocolate cake. Although, I did have 2 slices of pumpkin bread… IN A ROW. Please note that I did put forth the effort. FYI: I’m not bulimic or anorexic. I’m in a funk, people. Let’s try to stay focused.
All attempts to defeat this funk have failed. I’ve gone to concerts, read books, over worked, blow-dried my hair, got my eye-brows threaded, bought new shoes, volunteered my time, journaled (yeah, I won’t be re-reading that stuff for a few years), talked about it, prayed and prayed and prayed about it, oh and did I mention the crying? So where does that leave me? How do I get past this? How do I get to place where my head isn’t swarming with a million thoughts? How do I get rid of the invisible 100 pound weight that seems to be sitting on my chest? When does the moment come where I can stop reminding myself how to breathe? My guess is, none of those questions will be answered anytime soon.
Did I mention how much funks suck? Out of nowhere, they just take over. They’re the emotional version of squatters. And they move into our heads without signing a lease. And for some unexplainable reason, they have rights. They belong. They’re ugly and unruly and scary and sad and angry and frustrating and they represent all the shitty things we know exist in our world but don’t want to deal with. We make every attempt to bypass them and distract ourselves as much as possible when we see them coming. And even when we know they’ve moved in, we try to ignore them as if they don’t exist. Sometimes, we even try to pawn them off on someone else. Like squatters who live under the viaducts or sleep on park benches, we look for ways to avoid eye contact with them until we have no choice but to look them in the eyes. When all is said and done, there’s no denying, they’re there. They exist. And there’s one living in my head… right now.
Maybe that’s where I’m at today. Maybe this is my way of looking this squatter-of-a-funk of mine in the eye. Maybe I’m done bypassing and trying to distract myself from dealing with it. I hate that it’s here. But I can’t deny that I may have given this recent funk the impression it could pay me a visit. I made unwise choices and trusted someone who has their own multitude of squatters to deal with. And though I may have given this funk the impression it could visit, I certainly have no intention of becoming roommates with it. But it’s here now and, as with every single other funk that has paid me a visit, I have to figure out how to get it out of my head without causing any more damage.
And I guess that’s where you come in. I assume you’re reading this because you care to know me a little better. Or maybe you just happened to come across this blog on accident and found it so riveting that you had to read this complete stranger’s ranting about being in a funk. That works too. Given that we all now know I cannot get over this funk on my own, would it be too much to ask if you would say a prayer or two for me? No worries if it’s not your thing. I only need one or two people to help out (though I won’t be mad if the numbers exceed that). I realize the verse in Matthew says, “for where two or three gather in my name, there am I with them.” and I know we aren’t really gathering together in one place but let’s not get all boggled down in those details. I just need you to pray for me. I need to laugh again with reminding myself how to laugh. I need to eat without force feeding myself. I need to sleep without the help of Tylenol PM. I really need to stop crying. But most of all, I need to remember why it is I really am worth ‘it’.