Let me be real: trust is my Achilles’ heel. Trusting others? Hard. Trusting myself? Damn near impossible some days. My OCD – the kind that makes me think about who touched what and when and how many people sneezed on it in 2017 – isn’t just about germs. It’s about control. Bear with me.
One, a car hit me and another ran over me while crossing the street after buying cigarettes – trusting that I can do something I’d done hundreds of times, safely. And two, because when you don’t trust even yourself to keep you safe, you start trying to control everything. Every item, every outcome, every conversation. It’s exhausting. It’s lonely. And yes, it’s funny in that “if I don’t laugh I’ll cry” kind of way.
But here’s the thing: I’m still working through it. And I’m proud of that. I’m proud of being aware. I’m proud of not washing my mug twice anymore, just once. (Progress, not perfection, folks.) I’m proud of sitting with discomfort instead of numbing it with vodka and smokes. Well, no more vodka at least but sometimes I still want to disappear. But I don’t.
Because I know where that road leads. And I’d rather take the one that smells like freedom and one of my mom’s many perfumes over one that smells like a brewery and regret.
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