Some qualitative change has taken place, and it’s a new one to me.
I seem to be talking less.
Not in a depressed-can’t-talk way, nor a too-much-happening way. The stress has not bowled me over, nor am I without things to say, exactly.
I think it runs back to a few weeks ago when I decided that trying to do all of the things that I wanted to do before I die next week (no, I’m not dying next week, but that’s the mindset that has imbued my life with the color of urgency for the past decades) wasn’t working. All the mind-blowing effort and determination was doing was making certain that I was acting on my list without enjoying my list. I decided, after trying to force Bikram’s yoga on top of urpalicious acid reflux and lack of sleep, that if I doggedly pursue my list when I’m not up for it, all I am doing is training myself to dread the things on my list.
There followed some weeks of trying my damnedest to not over-react in any direction. I didn’t stop doing everything, but I stopped forcing anything.
And the panicked urgency that has been the basis for most of my adult choices has slowly been fading. Some.
I am beginning to be better rested. I have been consistently less stressed. My brain works more reliably. I did have one truly dreadful late-night episode of self-loathing, but overcame it and moved on.
I didn’t change any of the milestones I wanted to pass in my life. All I did was cover the speedometer.
I’ve no idea what actually changed, internally, nor what import it carries. I will, I imagine, find out eventually, and I’m pretty confident that I’ll let myself know when I do.
Uhm. Which is another qualitative change that’s gone hand-in-hand with the first; I appear to be trusting myself to be a good person a bit more than I am used to.
It’s all very odd.
Crossposted from Epinephrine & Sophistry