Frick on a stick

There are some moments when you let the stress take over. You know far better than this. You know this too shall pass and will mean diddlysquat in the scheme of things.

But sometimes you let it take over. You let yourself stress so much your breathing decibel levels raise. You feel you could implode, vomit or collapse. You throw your head on the desk and make animalistic noises to the alarm of the interns. Or worse to the acceptance of your colleagues. ‘Oh don’t mind, sometimes they just do that.’ 

You learnt during travelling that fucks should not be given. Yet you speak at heightened speeds to communicate the issue of your issue. Yes there are starving children and a dickhead of a PM in Australia. But this sense of urgency, this obligation of duty, this quest for perfection, blurs reality. 

Generally you know better. Until you don’t. Until your nervous system stops you sleeping, and has you snapping at others. Don’t you know my world is on edge. 

Don’t sweat the small stuff. Go back to yoga. Just breathe. All great internal and external advice from internal and external sources. But the escaping stress disagrees. It doesn’t dissipate. It compounds. It makes every other tiny problem like one of those just add water toys. 

You fight back tears. What on earth could that help to achieve? Nothing. But perhaps release. 

Stress does you no favours. It turns your concentration haywire. Yet you let it exist. You kid yourself that chocolate, or carbs, or wine are the cure. 

If you’re lucky there’s a friend to offer a ‘can I help?’, an ear to handle your whiney whinges, a cup of tea, or a separation from the situation. 

The situation that will matter nay when you awake days, weeks, months later to a day that is yours to take away the good bits, and brush away the slightly less. 

Oosa. Namaste. Calm your farm. 


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