Trigger Happy

Actually, trigger sad.

 I texted Seth tonight and when the words fatigue, sadness, confusion, and worthless all occurred in the same sentence, I knew I had a problem. The comprehensive word for that could be depression. Maybe. I've been to that difficult land before. It is a painful, angry, discouraging place. There was no motivation to do anything. I lost my world in books. I never cried. There were times I could just stare at the wall and wonder what the point was.  I don't actually think I'm depressed today. I think I hit a trigger. A pointed reminder dredging up a deep, discouraging, and potentially damaging sadness.

In the not too distant past, I could say "the other day", but in my husband's family that could mean ten years ago. So, I'll say in the rather recent past, someone lashed out at me. Someone who was expected to be safe and stable. I knew they had problems. I just didn't realize the depth of them, until I was on the receiving end of their wrath. This story is not about them, though. Everyone has trouble, hurt, and memories to hold them back. My story is about discovery and pain and a search for hope.

At 5 pm tonight, I was driving home. I looked left to the driver next me at the red light and saw my person. That person. The one who had power to hurt me. But it wasn't that person. It was a look-alike. I didn't realize at the time, but hindsight is a good teacher. In that moment, my energy waned, not that I had much left at that hour anyway. By the time I was home, all I could do was lay on the floor. That's right. The floor. In the hall. My bedroom doorway, as a matter of fact. It was there I felt no hope, no lightness, no strength. Worthless. Sadness. Confusion.  It was there, I wrote to Seth. And in that moment of writing, I knew I had a problem.

The real problem is not depression. The real problem is the question of how to get past the trigger point, healthfully and, preferably, quickly.

I've had a ramble of thoughts since the rather recent incident about how to understand, cope, and live with the resulting questions and consequences. There may be no cohesion, but perhaps, I'll find some as I sort through them.

In the beginning, there was love. And that's where things get confusing. What kind of love? Why does there have to be anything other than true love. I'm not talking about "true love's kiss" love. I'm talking about honest to goodness unconditional love. The kind Jesus taught about. The kind of love you can hold for anyone. ANYONE. The kind of love that never dims because the giver doesn't get what they want. The kind of love that keeps glowing even if the receiver rejects it. The kind of love a mother should have for her baby. You know, the love that keeps her up all night while they cough, cry, coo, or sleep. The kind that compels you to have another baby for the baby's sake and not because they were a "surprise" or "accident." Real love. The one that never gives up, goes away, pushes away. The one that waits patiently, sometimes for a long time without much hope, with open arms.

In the beginning, there was love. And that's where it's clear. I may never be on the receiving end of real love from the someone, but that never will be the problem. It will be sad, is sad.  It was never loving that emptied the heart (not my words, look it up). Angry, bitterness, resent will empty the heart. Love creates life, literally and figuratively. It allows for growth and difference. It permits choice and stays in spite of it. Love makes life beautiful, lets you see beauty in life, encourages, envelops, and takes effort to keep.

Ah! The answer I seek. I cannot alter the past or force another's choices, but I can make my world beautiful. I can encourage growth and choice for me, for my children. I can envelop the people who chose to be with me in the best kind of love. The honest to goodness unconditional kind.

The next time I encounter a trigger of sadness, and I'm sure it will be soon, I might lay on the floor and cry for a bit because I still love someone. But then, I'll pick myself up off the carpet, march or dance down the stairs, make my world beautiful and squeeze the closest person, because I love them oh so very much.





cautionary note: This is my story. Yours looks different, and that is just fine. You find your way to love. Sometimes that means space, safety, honesty (and that can be scare when facing down the unstable attachment sometimes called love). Be brave and see your story. Now what are you going to do about it?