Sometimes, when I am alone with myself, I feel perfectly happy and complete. Other times, I feel alone. Like I’m a chicken scratch in dry mud when I’m meant to be parchment and expensive ink.
Something I have been wrestling with lately, is simply how exhausting self-soothing is. Constantly telling yourself everything will be okay because you don’t have your person who will tell it to you. Someone who you truly believe in, and someone who truly believes in you. I guess that’s why there’s so many religions in the world.
Self-soothing is the act of calming ourselves when we go through a stressful event. As I ease myself further into these new lockdown restrictions, I find myself getting more anxious. I soothe myself steadily, telling myself I can get through anything in an almost ritualistic manner. I work through my anxiety, gently unwinding myself with the techniques I have learnt.
Yet eventually, my fingers become numb trying to unwind these plaits and twists, and my chest aches through the act of trying to breathe away the stress. I get so exhausted looking at myself and trying to speak life into my body again. I don’t want to do it anymore.
I know that I will get through it, and I am not alone in my words. I know, but it doesn’t make it easier.
I guess one religion didn’t provide enough answers and strategies for us. Maybe that’s why we have so many.