… and it WORKED!
I know, you’re thinking: it was a self-fulfilling prophecy. Okay, so maybe a little? But let me start from the beginning.
I was in a Mood. You know what it’s like. A “life is horrible, I hate myself, things will never get better, yet I know they will and I’m just overreacting and I hate that too” sort of mood. And for once, I was at home.
I left the living room and walked to the bedroom before I took it out on K (it definitely wasn’t her fault, and had nothing to do with her. Which is hard for a spouse to believe sometimes). I felt a little silly, but I opened the accordion doors to the bedroom closet, sat down on the step stool, and slid the doors shut as far as I safely could (no handles on the inside and all).
It was dark, but not completely, as the hallway light was on. But it was different. It was not somewhere I had ever sat before, so it took me out of my normal environment, and that was good (I hope I don’t need it so frequently that it becomes familiar). It was quiet, and that was unexpected and refreshing. Because of the quiet, I was able to hear myself breathe, and to slow down my breathing. I closed my eyes. I relaxed; I got sleepy. It was almost like savasana in yoga, almost like I was actually meditating. I calmed down.
I would have stayed in the closet for longer than the five minutes or so that I allowed myself. It felt good in there; cozy. Womb-like? But K was in the living room and saying “I need to go deal with my terrible mood by sitting in the bedroom closet with the door shut” sounds just about as wackadoo when you say it to your spouse as when you say it to, well, anyone (she doesn’t read the blog, and thus doesn’t know about the Learning to Walk in the Dark project). And who wants to be someone who copes with bad days by having to sit in a closet? Well, I guess I’m that person, like it or not.
It felt like a guilty pleasure to sit in there, yet I wasn’t hurting anyone. I enjoyed it. But yeah, I also clearly feel like I’m a bit worse off in this grief/anxiety place than I thought. Oh well. There’s always a closet.