It’s been three days since I took a shower. I spent all of them in the same pajamas. Yesterday I didn’t even brush my teeth. Today, I showered. I couldn’t get the water hot enough. I needed to boil off the residue left behind from this most recent time sitting on the ‘pitty pot.’ It seems three days is about my norm, and when I finally get sick and tired of pondering the same stew of emotions. The broth is shame drowning many ingredients consisting of moments and memories I cannot move past.

What was my trigger this time? I’m writing this blog post in hopes that I can figure that out; I’m sharing in hopes that I can connect with someone who has gone through this time and time again in life. We are not alone, and yet, alone is where I prefer to be. There is no quick fix. There is no other remedy–sitting on the pot is necessarily the remedy.

It began with a family gathering. We scheduled the party months ago. I spent weeks preparing for it and began decorating fourteen days before the event. I planned the meal, the outfit, the photos I would take, the music I would play, and at what particular moment I would light the candles.

People began arriving. Greetings, hugs, kisses, and fun is what I yearned for. Instead, I continued to be in charge of project managing the event. Guests approached with requests for things that I hadn’t thought of. Shit. I became angry with myself for not. My genius-level IQ husband, so afraid of upsetting me, is reduced to a man unable to choose a platter for the wings without approval and clueless to what temperature to heat the potato skins. I become angry at him.

The weather doesn’t cooperate either. The photo booth I prepared now needs the protection of a tent. And mind you, the tent does not match the party decorations. Fuck. The outside bar sits unused, with the mass of liqueur hiding in the corner of the dining room.

My husband becomes afraid to approach me; my bulldog senses my stress and nearly bites my husband’s hand off. I’m boiling inside because nothing has gone as I planned. My mind has lost its ability to see any positives at the moment and having a conversation with family I literally haven’t seen in two years becomes impossible. “You need a drink,” I hear from a friend. I concede and allow an alcoholic beverage to move me out of my anxiety.

I replace the meal I should eat with another cocktail. I allow myself to relax, but only a bit because now I’m drinking alcohol on an empty stomach. My anger with myself transforms into that of disgust. Why am I so uptight? Why didn’t I do all of this perfectly the first time? Everyone is going to hate me and never want to come back. No one will believe that I have what it takes to run my own business–event planning. I suck. I’m incompetent, and I will likely fail in my new job. I want to cry.

The night ends with a mass of cleaning that I cannot approach. My husband does it all. I spend the next two days re-reading the memoir that I’ve finished writing and editing. Is that what my problem is?

Yes, my memoir is done. It was the most challenging thing I have ever written. It contains truths about me and my family that I’m not sure they want to remember. The moments I chose for the book took me on a journey of recovery but not without struggle. I faced many demons while writing The Collector. This facing began the process of healing parts of me, and now, the document is being formatted for printing. Soon it will be a six by nine-inch floppy stack of paper containing precious thoughts and dire emotions I needed to write in order to identify.

I think that is where I got stuck; I was already stuck before the party. I was on such auto-pilot that I didn’t even realize that I was in mourning. I had to say goodbye to the active therapy writing the book brought me. Writing these stories allowed me to say goodbye to some of my anger. Not only that but I’m scared sick about it.

I’ve published one book before this, and I was embarrassed and dissatisfied with its lack of readiness once I read the printed version. Again, or rather, as usual, I was angry with myself for not doing it perfectly the first time. I will admit that deep down, the errors I made the first time publishing taught me many things. Things I needed to know for (more importantly for) this book.

This book. My memoir. Me, my brother, Casey, and our parents. Writing this book has been the only thing that settled my anger at my mother and my rage at the world to a certain level. Soon it will be ready for publishing. I’m not sure I will have the guts to put it out there. The stories inside are mine, and they include the people that I love. Shouldn’t I at least share it with them?

Today, I’m off the pitty pot. My mind is exploring new thoughts, and I have left the safety of the couch. I won’t cancel the almost canceled appointment; I will go to the grocery store, and I will even publish this post.

I have spent many days on the metaphysical pitty pot where instead of purging the toxicity of my mind, I dwell in it. I sit in the shit and absorb the feelings profoundly and wholly. I don’t share my feelings with anyone. I do it alone. Every single time. It’s the only way I know how to settle my fear, regret, and worry.

But beware, the pity pot is a very seductive place. It can wrap its occupant in the warmth of sadness and keep you there if you are not careful. It is a hiding place that renders everything else invisible. Your abilities as a human being disappear. Your faults ripen with vibrant remembrances as proof of your self-inflicted defeat. Responsibilities become overwhelming, and failure feels easier.

Take your turn and your time on the pot, but make sure you get up. Eventually.

I love you all.

Tina