Obsessed with the up-cycling process, I soon begin skipping lunch at work to go thrifting instead, to find more things to paint.
The obsession intensifies. The more I painted; the more it’s all I want to do. So I do. As a result, I start showing up to work with paint still stuck to parts of my hands and occasionally in my hair. The judge-filled glances from my co-workers doesn’t go unnoticed by me but I keep my mouth shut, giving them zero explanation as to why I seem to always look like I’m half-way through a DIY project. I’m sure they came to their own conclusions anyway, and those conclusions, are simply none of my business.
Sitting in yet another meeting that could have easily been an email, I fantasize about walking out the door for the 1000th time in the last few years. My toes feel pinched in my heels and my corporate pants feel like a straight jacket for my thighs. I tug at them in irritation, rooted in my discomfort.
As my boss drones on and on about revenue, goals, and self starters, I fantasize about opening my own artsy, vintage shop.
What if that could be a thing? Like a little vintage shop by the sea, filled with all of my painted treasures. Like… treasures by the sea.
“Treasures. Treasures by the sea.” I can hear it softly in my mind. I love the way it sounds.
I love sounds. Like the sounds of my heels clickity clackity right the fuck out of here.
Mid fantasy, my manager’s voice is suddenly booming, bringing my attention back to the meeting. He’s still rambling on about revenue when I remember that I’m supposed to be looking like I care.
But I don’t. Not even a little bit. In this moment, I’d rather be almost anywhere than right here.
It’s then, that it trickles in. That dreadfully familiar sense of impending doom starts to wash over me. I recognize it immediately and as a result, my body tenses as it prepares itself for the spiral. My muscles tighten and I suddenly can feel my anxiety coursing through my veins — it sounds faintly like frantic humming, but feels like life or death. Mostly death.
Mid exhale, the need to run, to bolt, to get the fuck out of here — consumes me. This urge to run continues to barrel through me, urging me to give into it. The sounds of the room turn up to full volume and I can suddenly hear everything, in stereo. Every pen click, every paper shuffle, every lip smack, every nail bitten. Everything. It’s all consuming.
I need to go.
I don’t know where I need to go. I just know that I do. But I can’t. Glancing around, I wonder if any of them can tell that I’m in the middle of a mental breakdown. No one seems to notice and if they do, they don’t seem to care.
Well, that’s good at least.
