Overwhelm.
There's nothing like it.
The urge to stop the momentum of a launch beyond your limit is insurmountable. To detour is damn near impossible. Like halting childbirth after the10 cm dialation. (Believe me, I tried! "I'm done," I cried. "I'll go home and pick up where I left off tomorrow.") Nope.
Where does "I'm fine" tip over the edge to "I really don't think I can do this?"
How do you even know when you're approaching the cliff?
Sensation of wanting to run and hide, grab a pint of Chubby Hubby and a spoon from the silver set, gobblng the entire carton in one fell swoop as you turn the corner, seemingly away from Hell.
The consequence of not totally comprehending where you're headed is heightened by the fact that, once the spoon hits the bottom of the container, the GUILT, SHAME, TREPIDATION takes over.
You may not even realize the implication of having been out-of-control, until long after you've crossed the finish line.
It's too late to take back the swirl of a wrist as the plastic casing comes off the Ben and Jerry's lid.
Doing the same thing, again and again, expecting different results is just insane.
There is a simpler solution.
Instead of allowing things to fester, accept the throb of agony after scratching off the scab, the troubling sensation of an overstuffed intestine, agony of alcohol fog, bulging shopping bags crammed behind the closet door, lethargy of too many Nurse Jackie episodes...
catch the rat.
Trap it, examine the body from nose tip to tail.
Talk the issues out with a comrade, a kindred spirit, pen pal (or journal entry) to ferret-out the issues behind feeling tapped, even depressed.
This is just a circumstantial unsorted, and complicated event.
You survived.
And you'll recover.
Promise.
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