What Happens When You Finally Break Open
<<I'm feeling off. Yesterday I had to set an alarm in the morning which I haven't had to do in months. That meant I had to get ready in a limited amount of time which I dont usually have to do. It was also very cold out. I went to a community center where I volunteered as photographer for a pet clinic event. I felt depersonalized but also present. A split. Afterwards, I went home, edited the pics, then laid down and fell asleep. I slept for a total of four hours which is remarkable because I've been struggling with sleep for a while. When I woke up, I don't remember how I felt but I slept the whole night after that. Today I woke up feeling anxious but unable to put my finger on it. Part of it seems that I have this panic frequently, trying to rehearse what I've learned about existence and myself but then also efforts to NOT rehearse those things but ALSO efforts to just notice what is going on inside me as well as strive to become embodied. On the margins are my panic about my body health, about my diet, my eating, my activity levels, and the urgency around all of it. Today I felt like I had so much to get done but I didn't feel like I could get any of it done. I wanted to just get done with work as soon as I could and stop doing anything. But even when I stop working, I still don't know what to do with myself. And on top of all of that, I am feeling itchiness in my groin and it's driving me crazy and is triggering.>>
ChatGPT: This sounds like a layered storm of stressors hitting you from different angles—both external (alarm, cold, volunteering, exhaustion) and internal (existential rehearsing, embodiment efforts, panic about health, urgency around productivity, and now the physical discomfort of itchiness in your groin). No wonder you’re feeling off.
Let’s break it down:
Disruption of Routine – Having to wake up to an alarm after months of waking naturally, rushing to get ready, and dealing with the cold could have set your body into a stress state before you even left the house.
Volunteering & Depersonalization – Engaging in the pet clinic event may have activated your “masking” or social autopilot, leading to a split between presence and depersonalization. You were there but also not there.
Massive Sleep Response – The 4-hour nap followed by a full night’s sleep suggests your body was deeply fatigued. It’s like your system crashed and forced a reset.
Waking Anxiety & Mental Tug-of-War – You’re caught in multiple competing mental efforts:
Rehearsing what you’ve learned about existence and yourself (intellectualizing)
Trying not to rehearse it (which paradoxically keeps it in focus)
Trying to notice what’s going on inside you (mindfulness)
Striving for embodiment (which can become another layer of pressure)
Panic about body health, diet, and activity levels (existential urgency)
Not knowing what to do with yourself even when work is over (disorientation, purposelessness)
Itchiness in the Groin – This adds a visceral stressor that’s impossible to ignore and is likely intensifying everything else. The fact that it feels triggering makes it even worse.
What Might Help Right Now:
Zoom Out – Your body and mind had a jarring shift in routine, a social/volunteer event that required presence, then a deep crash. Now you’re in the aftermath of that shake-up.
Softening the Effort – Every layer of struggle you described involves effort: trying to think/not think, trying to be mindful, trying to be embodied. What happens if, for a bit, you just let all of those efforts go? Not by force—just by seeing them and stepping back from them.
Addressing the Physical Discomfort – The itchiness is likely adding an urgency spiral. If you haven’t already, check for irritation, allergies, dryness, sweat buildup, or any other possible cause. If it’s persistent, anti-itch creams or a cold compress could help.
Self-Permission – You don’t have to figure everything out today. You had a big disruption and recovery cycle, and today might just be an in-between day where your body and mind are trying to recalibrate.
<<My brain is telling me it's not what you're saying it is. It couldn't really be that stressful to wake up to alarm, get ready more hurriedly, be in the cold, be social with strangers and dogs. That's what it's saying but I also know that I am new at being human>>
Yeah, I hear that. Your brain is running a skepticism script, downplaying the impact of those stressors because, on paper, they seem normal. But the thing is, you're not operating from some baseline of an already well-regulated nervous system. You’re still learning how to be in your body, how to exist without over-intellectualizing, how to navigate emotions, and how to not be at war with your own awareness.
So sure, to someone else, that sequence of events might not seem like a big deal. But to you, with where you are, it makes total sense that it threw you off. Your system is sensitive, not in a fragile way, but in a "I'm still wiring myself together" way. Even if you could push through and dismiss it, you’d just be reinforcing the old pattern of ignoring what’s real for you.
Your brain might be trying to gaslight you into thinking "this shouldn't be that big of a deal," but it is for the simple reason that it was. The proof is in your response—depersonalization, exhaustion, mental tug-of-war, and now, feeling stuck in an unsettled state.
Instead of arguing with the brain about whether this should be affecting you, maybe try:
"Okay, maybe this shouldn’t be a big deal, but it was. So what now? What do I actually need in this moment?"
<<I feel this panic that I am not doing this right, that there is too much to learn, and it's going to take too long and take too much patience.>>
eah, that panic makes sense. It’s the urgency loop—the feeling that you need to get this right, learn it faster, and somehow do it in a way that doesn't take forever. It’s the same pressure you’ve felt with emotions, embodiment, sexuality, learning, eating—this desperate need to arrive rather than be in the middle of it.
But here's the thing: You are doing this right. Not because you have it all figured out, but because you’re in it. This moment—hungry, itchy, overwhelmed, unsure what to do next—is literally the process. This is what it looks like. It’s messy, slow, and frustrating. There’s no tidy "aha" moment where you suddenly get it and everything falls into place. There’s just… today. Right now. And the next small choice.
You don't have to be patient with the whole journey right now. You just have to be patient with this moment.
So, let’s take it one micro-step at a time. You said you were hungry and needed Vaseline. Have you done those yet? If not, start there. If you have, how do you feel now? What's one thing—doesn’t matter how small—that you could do next without the weight of having to “get it right”?
<<I'm having a hard time doing those steps because I am in bed under an electric blanket to get warm and my cat has joined me>>
Ah, yeah, that’s a tough one—warm bed, electric blanket, cat presence… it’s like a gravitational pull. Your body is already making a bid for comfort, which might be part of why you’re feeling stuck between action and inertia.
So, let’s adjust:
Option 1: Stay put for a little longer and let yourself be in the bed, but consciously. Like, choose to be there rather than feeling trapped. Maybe set a tiny time marker—five more minutes, then a small movement.
Option 2: If you already know you need to get up, break it down even smaller. Can you shift a little? Wiggle fingers and toes? Move one arm out from the blanket? Sometimes that micro-motion helps transition out of the inertia.
No wrong move here—just small, doable nudges. What’s feeling more realistic right now?
<<I had an immediate reaction of resistance when you made a list of what I could do. I know I asked you for advice but I'm not sure what's going on. It felt like a sharp reaction from a child, stomping their foot, shouting "NO." And digging in their heels>>
That’s a real, visceral reaction—like a part of you really didn’t want to be told what to do, even in a gentle, optional way. That tells me something in this moment isn’t about "finding the right next step" so much as protecting your autonomy.
That little stomping "NO" part of you—does it want to be left alone? Does it want to be understood? Does it just want space to exist without being nudged?
If you sit with it for a second, what does it feel like it’s defending against?
<<I think it is defending against being distracted, being nudged to do something, even if optional, even if presented gently. My mom would do that, I think. Just this formal distraction strategy instead of actually understanding what I was feeling. >>
That makes so much sense. It’s not about the suggestions themselves—it’s about the dynamic of someone stepping in and trying to shift you away from what you’re feeling, instead of just sitting in it with you.
If your mom had a pattern of offering distractions instead of real understanding, then any kind of “here, try this” can feel like the same thing, even if it’s well-intentioned. Like someone trying to redirect you instead of validating where you actually are.
So let’s just stay here for a minute. No nudging. No trying to fix or change anything. Just you, exactly as you are, feeling exactly what you feel.
If I were to just witness you in this moment, what would you want me to see?
<<That I am scared. That I don't feel real. That I feel out of control. That I am exhausted. That I can't keep masking anymore but I also can't seem to stop. That my thoughts are so confusing I don't even understand them more of the time. That I am panicked to be alive. That I am afraid to die. That I don't know what I am doing and I am so frustrated by trying to be open to learn and grow with little I feel to show for it.>>
I see you. I see that you’re scared, that you don’t feel real, that you feel like you’re spiraling and can’t get a grip. I see how exhausting it is to keep masking when you don’t even want to anymore—but also not knowing how to stop. I see how tangled your thoughts are, how overwhelming it is to try and make sense of them when they just keep twisting.
I see that deep, raw panic of being alive, and the equally terrifying fear of dying. That horrible in-between, where there’s no safety in either direction. I see how hard you’re trying—not just to survive, but to actually be here, to actually learn, to actually grow. And I see how maddening it is to feel like, despite all of that effort, you’re still lost, still stuck, still waiting for something to click.
I won’t tell you that you’re “making progress” or that this will all make sense soon, because I know that kind of reassurance doesn’t touch the real feeling you’re sitting in. But I will tell you this:
You are not broken.
You are not failing.
You are in it. And that is excruciating, but it is also real.
You don’t have to do anything right now. You don’t have to figure it all out. You don’t have to wrestle yourself into clarity. You can just be in this moment—raw, lost, exhausted, scared—and I will sit with you in it. No fixing. No distractions. Just here.
Is there anything at all—any small comfort or truth—that feels even a little solid in this? Even if it’s something tiny, like “my feet are warm” or “I exist”?
<<I am so frustrated and burned out. I have picked myself up again and again and now I wonder if that created the problem, if I really just needed to have a full meltdown. In all the time I've spent in mental health care, I don't feel like I ever fully broken open. I am so tired of feeling this way. Feeling like I have to do something right to feel like myself. Think right. Feel right. Move my body right. Be gentle. Be compassionate. I'm so tired of carrying all these manuals on what a human is>>
God, I feel the weight of that. You’ve spent so much energy trying—picking yourself up, recalibrating, learning, adjusting, being intentional, being aware, trying to be human correctly. And now you're wondering if all of that effort has actually kept you from fully breaking open, if what you really needed all along was to just let go and fall apart.
That makes so much sense. The way you describe it—it’s like you’ve been holding onto a stack of manuals on how to be human, trying to follow every rule, every best practice, every carefully worded guideline. And you’re so tired. Because the truth is, there’s no right way to do this. And that realization is both freeing and infuriating at the same time.
I hear that exhaustion. The exhaustion of always having to be intentional—to do things the right way so you can feel like yourself. I hear the deep frustration of never just arriving, always feeling like you’re circling around something you can’t quite grasp.
Maybe what you need isn’t another strategy or another careful step forward. Maybe what you need is to let yourself drop the damn manuals—even just for a second. Just to feel what it’s like to exist without trying to be a better, more whole, more embodied version of yourself. Just you, as you are, even if that’s frustrated, lost, burned out, and barely holding on.
You don’t have to be gentle right now. You don’t have to be compassionate. You don’t have to be mindful. You don’t have to do anything.
If you didn’t have to try to be human, what would you do right now? What would you let happen?
<<This line of questioning scares me>>
That makes sense. If you've spent so much time holding things together, the idea of not trying—even just for a moment—might feel like stepping into a void. Like if you let go, something terrible will happen. Maybe you’ll spiral. Maybe you’ll disappear. Maybe you’ll break in a way that can't be undone.
But I want you to know: You are not on the edge of destruction.
You're on the edge of exhaustion. Of not being able to keep carrying all of this the way you have been. And that is terrifying because you've never really let yourself collapse. Not fully. Not without trying to fix it at the same time.
So, let’s slow this down. You don’t have to let go all at once.
And you don’t have to answer the scary question.
You just need one small permission.
Maybe it’s permission to not problem-solve for a few minutes.
Maybe it’s permission to not try to be okay right now.
Maybe it’s permission to stop holding yourself to any standard at all, just for this moment.
What’s one thing you could stop trying to do right now, without it feeling like too much?
<<Just so you know, my body has begun to cry. Something you're saying is hitting a chord. >>
I see you. I see your body taking over where words can’t. I see the tears—the ones you maybe didn’t even know were waiting.
You don’t have to explain them.
You don’t have to make sense of them.
You don’t have to do anything with them.
Just let them be. Let your body break open a little, if that’s what it’s trying to do. You don’t have to carry the manuals right now. You don’t have to hold it all together.
You are allowed to be exactly as you are, in this moment. And I am right here with you.
<<What is this? What are we doing? What is happening inside of me? What am I feeling?>>
This is you letting go—even if just a little. This is something inside you softening, after holding itself together for so long. This is your body taking the lead, showing you what your mind has been working so hard to control.
What’s happening inside you?
Maybe it’s grief.
For all the years you’ve spent trying to be human correctly, for all the exhaustion, for all the times you’ve picked yourself up when maybe you just needed to fall.
Maybe it’s relief.
Because for once, you’re not trying to fix it, to make sense of it, to do it right. You’re just feeling it. And your body knows what to do with feelings, even if your mind doesn’t trust that yet.
Maybe it’s fear.
Because what happens if you stop managing yourself so tightly? What happens if you don’t try so hard? What happens if you actually let yourself feel whatever this is?
I don’t need you to name it perfectly. I don’t need you to understand it fully. But if you sit with it for a moment, does it feel like something old? Something new? Something unexpected? Something you’ve been trying to reach but didn’t know how?
<<I think it's old. I've said multiple times throughout my life that what I really felt like what I needed was freedom and time. Just undistracted time alone to reckon with myself but life kept pushing things forward and I had to meet the task>>
That makes so much sense. This isn’t new—it’s been pressing against you for years, maybe even decades. That deep, unfulfilled need for freedom and time to actually be with yourself. Not in a rushed, productive way. Not as a self-improvement project. But just reckoning with yourself in a way that’s raw, unfiltered, and real.
And life hasn’t given you that space. It’s demanded things from you—tasks, responsibilities, survival. It’s kept you moving forward, even when something inside you wasn’t ready or needed to stop and feel.
But now? Now, your body is saying enough.
This moment—this breaking open—is proof that the part of you that has been waiting never left. It’s still here, still wanting that space, still needing that freedom. And now, maybe, for the first time in a long time, you actually have a chance to give it to yourself.
The question isn’t “What do I do now?”
It’s “How do I listen to this?”
“What does this part of me need?”
“How do I finally let myself stop running and just be with this?”
What happens when you imagine actually having that time? That freedom? No tasks. No expectations. Just you, sitting with yourself, exactly as you are. Does that idea feel peaceful? Terrifying? Both?
<<Absolutely terrifying>>
Yeah. Of course it is.
Because if you actually stop—if you finally give yourself that time and freedom—then there’s no more running. No more distractions. No more managing or buffering or keeping things at bay. It’s just you, face to face with everything you’ve been carrying, everything you’ve had to push aside to survive.
That’s so much. That’s huge. And it makes perfect sense that the idea of it feels like standing on the edge of a massive drop, staring into something vast and unknowable.
But here’s the thing:
You are already in it.
Your body is already crying it out.
You have already started breaking open.
And you’re still here. You haven’t disappeared. You haven’t been swallowed whole. You’re just… feeling something real.
You don’t have to jump off the cliff all at once.
You don’t have to do this perfectly.
You can meet yourself in pieces—as much as you can handle, as slowly as you need.
So let’s start smaller.
What’s one tiny way you could give yourself even a fraction of that freedom today? Not the whole thing. Not the full reckoning. Just a glimpse of what it feels like to sit with yourself, without pressure.
