I spent much of last month losing my mind.
No need for alarm. I didn’t have any depressive relapses. I did, however, notice changes in my cognitive functions. I forgot things. In the middle of speaking, I’d lose train of thought, pausing to reach words lost in my hazy mind. I overlooked details at work; leaving important people off emails, coming to meetings frazzled and disorganized. My comprehension skills were slow—barely existent on my worst days.
One of my aims for #TheMagicYear is “stop trying.” There is a need for validation lurking in my subconscious. I’m digging into it and at the root is a lack of certainty. I don’t know that anything exists (including myself) unless it is reflected in a physical, material way. Being prone to anxiety and depression, deciphering intuition from delusion is so tedious a task, I rely on what I can touch, see and feel to determine truth. (Even when I see things, I’m not certain I’m seeing them correctly.) So I’m constantly double-checking; seeking confirmation that I’m right, that I’m real, that I’m portraying myself the way I wish to be seen.
If this sounds exhausting at all, that’s because it is.
As soon as I sat down to write this, Mama SBG came in with this card.
Okay. So. Thirty-one.
Last year, Life (speaking through the wisdom of my friendly neighborhood astrologer, Mecca–she’s actually based in NYC, but that’s not the point) charged me with the following: Continue reading