This particular cab ride was...unsettling. After a few perfunctory questions about my job, he started going off on marriage. First, about how it was 'the last thing I had left to do' - which, no. I have a lot left to do: see Macchu Piccu; have lunch with Rashida Jones; learn to pee outside in case of the Apocalypse. Lots of stuff. I didn't get a chance to share that, though, because he'd already launched into a tale about the ill-fated marriage he arranged between his son and his niece. This was a really, really long story, and I didn't get to ask a single 'WTF', because he barely paused for breath. He also kept making really intense eye contact in the rearview mirror: further troubling on several levels. By the time we got to the restaurant, I was pretty disturbed. By the nature of the conversation, and because I didn't get to say anything. You at least check in to see if any Cab Therapy is in order, dude. This is an essential function of your job.
Cab drivers make for amazing therapists. They are completely objective, and allow you to procure a variety of diverse opinions - if nine out of ten cabbies tell you you're acting crazy, the likelihood is: you're acting crazy. You can cop to anything, because you'll likely never see them again. The back seat of a cab would be an ideal place to have a meltdown. But I never have them there. It took me forever to figure out why.
If you've known me for more than five minutes, you've likely experienced one of my meltdowns by reference. This is frequently how I meet people: "Hi, I'm Katie, nice to meet you. Sorry I'm dressed like this, but I had a missing-bracelet induced meltdown right before I left my house and it made three scarves and a long t-shirt seem like a reasonable outfit."
Yes, sometimes they're triggered by accessories. Sometimes by people, sometimes by disappointment. They can be kicked off by wonderful things, too: recently I got a card from my dad and sweater-tights from S in the mail on the same day. They were both unexpected, and led directly to a twenty minute cry-fest on the couch over how lucky I am. Basically, they're tantrums. Everything is too much, all at once, and the only solution is to crumple into a pile and wait it out. For most of my life, I assumed they were unavoidable.
Meltdowns can take a variety of forms. Sometimes they are quiet, and involve shutting myself in my room for a few days and not returning anyone's text messages, with a side of insomnia and late-night dog walking. Sometimes they are large-scale and public, like the day after J's wedding, two days before I moved to DC, when I started hysterically crying in the security line at the Detroit airport and did not stop hysterically crying until we landed in Boston approximately five hours later. I was dehydrated for a week afterwards. When I leave a loved one, I regularly cry on the trip home. Less dramatically than the Detroit Airport Incident, but enough so I'm sure I make whoever's seated next to me fairly uncomfortable.
Meltdowns are a consistent fact of me. But unless you're a really really special friend* (or an airline passenger), you've probably never dealt with me mid-melt. I usually manage to dry the tears up by the time I get out to meet you - even if I'm 45 minutes late and wearing Adidas windpants from high school. Until recently, I thought that was a fair measure of success.
I had a bad one a few weeks ago. Nothing terrible, just a tad larger scale than usual. I hadn't had one in a while. Part of me even figured I was due. Typical, typical. Except...how I handled it.
Usually I handle things one of two ways: 1) Deal with it ALONE, melt, then tell everyone about what a mess you were later; or 2) Hail a cab, get in, pour emotions over unsuspecting driver. When life knocked the wind out of me, a cab often felt like the best place to go. For a long time, vulnerability was not a trait I fathomed possessing. Far better to be an unstable mess than tell anyone what's honestly bothering you. A few years ago, after a particularly cathartic ride, it occurred to me that cab drivers up and down the eastern seaboard knew more about my heart than some of my closest friends.
This time, curiously, I took a slightly different route. I called friends**. I tried to figure out what the fuck I was so upset about, and I asked for help with it. Holy shit, that works so well! Yes, it's somewhat uncomfortable to let people in your life see all your scabby raw parts, but...it actually ends up soothing them. Who knew! And rather than, as per usual, one meltdown creating a series of smaller implosions in it's wake, like a little mental archipelago of insanity, talking about shit actually made me feel better. Lots better. I haven't had another since. AND I saw my family last week.
Of course, I feel like an asshole for needing a decade to figure out why I liked cab therapy so much. (Talking about what's actually bothering you with other human beings is awesome! And effective! It can prevent future meltdowns***. Do other people know about this?) But that's fine. The realization's worth it.
New Year's Eve was my last day of family vacation. Before the flight, I ran errands with my Dad. He wanted to talk about New Year's Resolutions. He said: "This is the last time we'll have to talk before you leave." But I couldn't engage. Those lumps on the sides of my throat were beginning to ache, and I didn't want to start bawling in the middle of a South Florida Publix. "You seem a little sad," he said. I told him: "Of course I'm sad." I was quiet for a minute, and then I said: "But it's okay for me to be sad. I'm leaving my family. It's okay to be sad." And as soon as I said it, it was. It was okay.
The Detroit Airport Meltdown of 2010? I was just fucking sad, man. So much was changing, for everyone I knew, it was a huge, huge time for all of us, and when you asked me how I felt about it all, I just said 'excited, excited, excited.' And of course I was excited, but a lot of loss comes with change like that, and I was sad. If I'd just fucking talked to someone about it, I probably could have avoided all that time spent standing in a corner hyperventilating and hoping no one noticed the weird choking-seal noises escaping from my face.
On Monday afternoon, my Dad dropped us off at the Miami airport, and I said good-bye to my brother and his lady right away - they were flying out of a different terminal. I didn't cry then. I didn't cry over lunch, I didn't cry on the plane****. I was sad to leave, but I was happy to be going home. They are not mutually exclusive emotions. It was okay.
On the cab ride home, I talked about how excited I was to see my dog, how New Year's Eve is wildly overrated, how surprised I was that the Raleigh airport a) existed and b) did not serve food after 7:30pm. We didn't talk much about my feelings at all. I can do that with other people now. It feels like a nice change.
Happy New Year, Loves.
* Or my brother, who deserves a fucking medal in this event.
** Well, first I talked to a random bartender, which was a hilariously tragic misstep. No one gets MORE emotionally reasonable with a pound of champagne in their system, even if it's free.
***This is not to say that I will be crying less. I just desk-cried at some pictures of Obama shaking hands with veterans.
****Full disclosure: I cried a little when I said goodbye to my Mom earlier in the day.
BONUS MATERIAL FOR MAKING IT THIS LONG: The title of this post comes from the greatest Mariah song that you've forgotten about. Please, enjoy.
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