Today has been one of those days that catches me off guard. One of those days in which I fall apart, draw some conclusions, then realize that I’m mood cycling again and that it’s very likely attributed to shifting hormones. This happened two months ago. I remember. I took some antidepressants for a short while and snapped out of it. Thankfully, this time, the insanity only had its grip on me for part of a day, and I came to my senses in the early afternoon.
Shaking my head… Seriously. Shaking. My. Head. You’d think I’d remember, when I start thinking along ridiculously extreme emotional lines, that my thoughts are traversing ridiculously emotional pathways, and that I’m being ridiculously emotional and these thoughts have little to no bearing on real life.
However. There are some thoughts that surface when I’m in that state that might warrant exploration.
I seem to tend towards thoughts of fear, insecurity, and uncertainty when I get caught up in a hormone induced storm. It’s truly ridiculous, and if I had my wits about me, I’d know that! Alas, such is not the nature of storms.
I’ve been thinking quite a lot over the past several months about truth and walls. I’ve been formulating some theories about the hidden heart of man. This likely applies to mankind, not just men, and it may well apply to me, but for now I will just say that it is based upon observations of men, gathered over many years. It goes like this. The theory is that one can learn quite a lot about the true heart of a man by the way he sleeps. Yep. I’m that creepy. Watching men while they sleep. And I don’t have all THAT many data points to consider, but I have given this some thought. I think that when one is sleeping, their defenses are down, and they present themselves in a more honest light. Because they aren’t presenting themselves at all. They aren’t staged. They are revealing a glimpse of their true selves. In retrospect, I’ve not known many men whose sleeping selves are a match of their waking selves, and, alas, even that doesn’t a fit necessarily make. Awake, one man might be a man among men, strong, powerful, confident, dominant. Asleep, that same man may be terrified, and actually swat at me if I reach out and touch him. Defensive. Afraid. Lost. Awake, one man might be gracious and noble, well spoken, measured, open, and confident. Asleep, that same man may be selfish, frightened, insecure. His form is minimized and still. Hiding. Afraid. Unreceptive to my touch. Awake, one man might be all bravado, macho, and confident. Another man among men. Big guy. Tough guy. Strong guy. Asleep, he may be an angel. If I reach out to touch him, he smiles and opens his arms and pulls me close. All defenses down, he is full of love. Giving. Appreciative. Receptive. He may never know that he revealed that part of himself, because he was asleep. And when awake, he hides behind his carefully constructed walls. I feel sad for all of these men, because they are conflicted. Awake or asleep, their fears rob them of the beauty and fullness of life. Imagine the peace and joy that one would know, if one were not conflicted! And I cannot be with a conflicted man. I just cannot.
I think that my own sleeping self is likely a fair representation of my awakened self. Apart from the ultra sexy CPAP breathing apparatus, I think that if a man were to reach out and touch me in the night, that I would respond by moving toward him. If he were awake, and watching me sleep, and stroked my hair or my face as I slept, I think I would likely smile. If he were to try to pull me close, I would shut off the CPAP and bury myself in his arms. I don’t curl up to take as little space as possible when I sleep. I don’t try to disappear. I don’t toss and turn. I position myself on my side, with my CPAP mask in the least obtrusive and least noisy position possible, and drift quickly off to sleep. I find peace, and I find rest.
I’ve been thinking of writing this post for quite some time! I had wanted to pose the notion about Mr. RightForMe. That his sleeping self would align with his waking self. That awake he would be kind and gracious and manly and secure, and asleep he would be kind and loving and strong and at peace. If I reach out to touch him, he may not wake, but he moves closer to me, and some part of our bodies connect. If he reaches out to touch me, I move myself closer to him, and some part of our bodies connect. I like to think that awake or asleep, we are comfortable and secure with each other and with ourselves. I like to think that neither one of us is afraid of love, and neither one of us is afraid to love. And even if we do have carefully constructed walls, we let each other in.
The problem with the hormonal storms is that while I’m under their twisted spell, I tend to despair and think that nobody would or could ever truly love me, know me, or understand me, and that it’s completely and absolutely impossible. That being because I can’t recognize myself when I’m spinning through that cyclone, so how could I possibly expect that of another? I’m glad those moments are few and far between, but I surely wish that they wouldn’t take me by surprise, each and every time.
Seriously. Each. And. Every. Time.
It helps, believe it or not, to write these things down. I scour through my blog when I find myself struggling, and I find posts like this that remind me that this happens. Sometimes that’s all it takes to snap me out. Then I can shake it off with gusto, the way a dog shakes the water from its body.