My Stress Has More Sass and Ass Than Me

Tuesday, January 24, 2017

I think I need a therapist.

Either that or a cigarette.

The repercussions for opting for the former would mean that I would legitimately be categorized as hipster sad. Which is not to say, I'm undermining the troubles of my peers who seek therapy as a way to maintaining a pleasant candor. I'm trying to point out that how I do not want to become a part of the pattern, of those adults who have given into therapy since Bombay cinema made it popular. It may be completely normal to seek help, but once Bollywood has suggested we do that, to remain the uptight snob that I am, I will not bend forward to accept it.

The trouble with going back to the cigarette is the dependency. If there's anything I've learned in the last two years (or the time that I didn't touch cigarette) in the last decade has been that dependency towards being or substance is a sign of being human. If I have not made it amply clear in the last two paragraphs, I cannot stand being a human, let me confess to it now. I can admit my mistakes and make my way to work towards them. However, I can show no sign of being a healthy adult with feelings or compassion of any sort. If I do give in, the first one to receive this sort of attention and love will be some rolled tobacco and there will be no looking back. I know myself.

Which makes things harder because I'm not opting for either long or short term solution.

It also won't be wrong to mention at this stage, I think I have hit an alarming level of stress and anxiety. From time to time, my imposter syndrome chimes in to greet, when I'm having a particularly bad day (which is at least four times a week). Those days turn out to be delightful as you have a host of existing situations to tackle, then the crippling sense of self-doubt and a cursory visit from your anxiety. That becomes like a hairball stuck in your mane that you're trying to hard to get rid of you. Or a lump of phlegm in your throat when you're down with a common cold. Or even chickenpox all over your body. It doesn't go out easy. It also leaves its own traces. It's incredibly hard to live with it. The commonality between all these situations and mental state of being is uncanny.

So when, I am greeted with, "Is everything okay? Can I get you something?" all I want to do is bawl down, and lie on the floor and not get up until my eyes can't see nothing. This is a temporary fix. Kinda like using a wide toothed comb to remove that hairball. Sipping Benadryl during common cold to get rid of phlegm. Rubbing Calamine all over your crop. It provides temporary solution and nothing more. You have to live with the burden of letting yourself down every thirty seconds, simultaneously as you're trying to prove to the next person/client/photographer/mother- how you deserve to be heard. How your fucking opinion matters.

Because what you're doing when you're shutting a person down with stress, by calling it out, making jokes and ridiculing is only deriding them to fall low under. You're telling them it's wrong to be sad and express yourself. You're only adding to their crippling sense of guilt, which extends to their existence, their work and their personal life.

As they say, if you can't say anything nice, then don't say anything at all. It's for all those of you who have tried to help someone who's going through stress. Please don't. Get them a cigarette and pass your therapist's number. You will do them one better. 

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