Let’s Talk About It…

Late this afternoon my mood hit a wall. Not a cute little speed bump. A full-on concrete barrier with zero warning and no reflective tape. So on my way home, I did what I do when my brain starts acting like it’s training for an a 5K Overthinking Marathon: I called Jarrett.

If you’re new here, Jarrett is my youngest son and also my twin in personality, looks and nature. He gets me. I get him. We are basically the same person in two different bodies, which feels illegal but apparently the universe allows it.

I didn’t call for advice. I didn’t call for a lecture. I didn’t call for somebody to “look on the bright side” because if you tell me that when I’m spiraling, I will spiritually shove you into traffic. I called because I needed a safe place to let my thoughts run their mouth while someone steady held the line. And that’s what he did. He just listened. Let me talk it out. Let me unravel without trying to “fix” me.

And here’s the thing about me: I live in two extremes.

I’m either:

“Fuuuu.” As in: I absolutely do not give a rat’s arse. I have zero emotional availability. My soul has logged off. Don’t ask me for anything except maybe snacks.

OR

I’m the opposite: Alice down the rabbit hole… overthinking, overanalyzing, overemotionalizing (not a word but it is now) literally everything. To the point I’m circling the drain like my brain is a Roomba stuck in a corner.

And just when I’m about to wander off into the darkness dramatically like a Victorian ghost, I suddenly get sick of myself.

I get salty. Like: “Okay, Mary Jane, enough. Stand up. Drink water. Stop narrating your own downfall.” It’s not graceful but it’s effective.

Jarrett didn’t try to talk me out of it. He didn’t rush me through it. He just sat in the mess with me from the other end of the phone, calm as ever, like “Yep. Heard. Keep going.”

That’s love, by the way. Not the mushy Hallmark kind. The real kind. The kind that says: I can handle your brain on fire and I’m not scared of you.

So now I’m curious… Is anybody else like this?

Living between “I don’t care at all” and “I care so much I’ve basically written a dissertation about it in my head”? Or is it just me, Jarrett and Jillian (my cousin).

Because if so… welcome to the club. We don’t have matching jackets, but we do have emotional whiplash, same genetics and excellent coping skills… eventually.

XOXO, Jani