So my new (awesome) therapist commented to me this morning that in her experience, people fall into one of two categories: Either they are worriers—chronically agonizing over absolutely everything—or they tend not to worry at all, even in situations where it’s appropriate and advantageous to do so. I bet you have NO IDEA which category I tend to fall into. (I’m hilarious!)
This leads to a lot of talking about this concept of “radical acceptance” (which I will leave for you to Google if you so choose), which basically boils down to a philosophy of “These things just ARE, and cannot be changed, so I accept them and move on to dealing with the things which ARE changeable.” HOLY WOW is this easier said than done, but it turns out that despite a lifetime of trying to get one’s head around this logical concept, having a mentally ill kid in the hospital is kind of that final push needed to realize “I have to find a way to live with this and still be a person with a life and hope and happiness.” Lucky, lucky me.
So that’s what I’m doing. Chickadee is in the hospital and I do not like it, Sam I Am. I do not like it one bit. But obsessing over the hows and whys and what-ifs changes nothing, except that it makes me miserable. Hmmmm. I have a lot of work to do.
In the meantime, my current thought processes reminded me of an incident from my youth that feels relevant, here. (Also, Off Our Chests has changed their name to Feel More Better, which I kind of love.) C’mon over and check it out.