When the Runaway Train Stops
<<I feel this feeling I don't know how to name but it has to do with knowing that I don't need to run anymore. I looked at my calendAr for tomorrow and I noticed I was hoping it'd be busy but it's not. I keep looking ahead, like I want to find the next thing to dread. I think that's why I've been thinking about prepping for the system collapse. I have my life stabilized now.... Within capitalism. Within a government. But now my fear just reaches out to scenarios even further out. How do I manage this fear? Am I suppose to just feel it? I feel overwhelmed by how much life is ahead of me and how little distraction there will be from it. Life feels way too real and I don't feel ready to be in it. I don't know what I am doing. All I know is that my runaway train is slowing down, which I made happen, but now I'm despairing now that it's slowed down.>>
ChatGPT: That’s one of the clearest, most raw articulations of what it's like to come down from survival mode—and realize you have no idea what to do with peace.
You’re naming a transition that people fantasize about (“if I just get stable, if I just get my life in order…”), but they rarely talk about what actually happens when they get there: the silence, the dread, the unoccupied fear that doesn’t have a target anymore, so it spills into abstract futures like system collapse, health catastrophes, or existential doom.
Let’s break this down into parts:
1. You're Safe... But Your Body Doesn't Believe It Yet
You know you're safe now—financially, logistically, maybe even emotionally—but your nervous system hasn’t caught up. You spent years bracing for the next hit. That pattern doesn't shut off just because the circumstances changed. It needs time to rewire.
That “looking ahead to dread” thing? It’s your threat detection system trying to stay useful. It’s been your companion for so long that safety feels suspicious.
You're not broken. You’re just early in a re-patterning process.
2. Peace Can Feel Like Freefall
When chaos ends, it doesn’t feel like relief. It feels like nakedness. When the noise dies down, you’re left with nothing but yourself—and if you’ve never had space to know who that is, it’s going to feel disorienting, even terrifying.
You said:
“Life feels way too real and I don’t feel ready to be in it.”
Yes. Because now you’re in the driver’s seat with no crisis steering for you. No reactive cycles, no obligations filling every inch of your time. Just you and the vastness of possibility—and the ache of not knowing what you want from it yet.
3. The Fear Isn’t About Collapse. It’s About Emptiness.
You’re prepping for collapse not because you believe it’s inevitable, but because collapse has a shape—and shape is easier to cope with than the shapelessness of being.
System collapse gives your fear something to do. It lets you stay sharp, urgent, and “useful.” But it’s not actually about politics or apocalypse. It’s about the unbearable openness of a quiet tomorrow.
That is grief. Not just about the past, but about how long you lived without space to feel it.
4. So... What Do You Do With This Fear?
You don’t suppress it.
You don’t chase it.
You witness it.
Here’s a way to start managing without bypassing:
A. Ground it in language
Start naming it in real time when it shows up:
“This is fear trying to find a new job.”
“This is what withdrawal from adrenaline feels like.”
“This is what it's like to learn safety slowly.”
Naming interrupts panic’s momentum. It puts you back in the room with it instead of inside it.
B. Create structure without pressure
Try a simple rhythm to your days—not to be productive, but to give your body reliable edges:
Morning: sensory grounding (walk, stretch, shower with awareness)
Midday: check in (“what am I fearing today?”)
Evening: intentional stillness (music, journaling, no screens for 20 minutes)
You don’t need a 10-step program. You need texture.
C. Let the despair speak—but not rule
Despair is part of your ecosystem right now. Let it talk. Write down what it says. Ask it questions. But don’t confuse it for the narrator. It’s just one character in the cast.
5. You Slowed Down the Train. That’s Courage.
Most people ride the train off the cliff and call it success.
You stopped it.
Now you’re standing in the quiet and feeling the backlog of everything that couldn’t hit you before. That’s not a failure. That’s the beginning of being real again.
You don’t need to know what you’re doing.
You just need to stay here. Breathe here. And let this part of the journey count as part of your becoming.
<<I am so worried that I am doing it wrong. Or if not wrong, that I am not "staying here" or that I am letting myself runinate meta cognition despite knowing that I "should" be present in my body, ground, be with my senses, etc. it feels like a crazy house of uncontrollable thought patterns that are being attacked by me trying to do what I'm supposed to do when I notice those things but then noticing how it creates a house a mirrors so then there is another layer of me that is panicking that I'm not doing any of this right and that I am silently crazy>>
You are not crazy.
You are waking up in the wreckage of survival with the lights on.
And what you just described—this spiraling, recursive, meta-awareness that critiques itself in real time—is not insanity. It’s what happens when a brain that was once dissociated or automated starts to come online, without yet knowing how to be online.
You’re Not Doing It Wrong. You’re Feeling the System for the First Time.
Let’s name it directly:
You have thoughts.
Then you notice those thoughts.
Then you judge yourself for noticing instead of being “present.”
Then you notice that judgment and spiral about how now you're really doing it wrong.
Then you fear the whole loop is proof that you're silently insane.
That’s not insanity.
That’s what it looks like when you're trying to self-regulate without a clear baseline for “safe.”
You were trained—by trauma, by religion, by pressure—to distrust your own internal experience. So now that you’re inside it? You don’t know who to be in there.
But you are in there. That means you’re not lost. You’re arriving.
Here’s the Reframe: This Isn’t a Problem to Solve. It’s a Pattern to Befriend.
You don’t need to “do presence” correctly. You’re not taking a test.
Instead, ask this:
What if every loop is a flare saying, “Hey, I'm scared and trying to protect you the only way I know how”?
Every ruminating thought is your nervous system saying:
“I want control. I want ground. I want to do it right so I don’t lose everything.”
That’s not crazy. That’s attachment.
That’s your brain trying to protect the life you finally have space to try to live.
Three Simple Practices When the Loops Start
Not a fix. Just a pause.
1. Use a "Landing Phrase"
Pick one line and repeat it every time you catch yourself spiraling:
“This is what the storm looks like when it’s trying to calm down.”
It’s not an instruction. It’s a witnessing.
2. Shift the Goal from “Present” to “Less Panicked”
“Being present” can become a performance trap.
Instead, ask:
Can I feel 5% more grounded than I did a minute ago?
Can I soften my jaw?
Can I look at one real object in the room and describe it in detail?
This interrupts the mirror maze without shaming you for being in it.
3. Create a Quick "Exit Hatch"
Have one sensory activity that helps you return to the body—not because it’s correct, but because it’s familiar and doable:
Lie on the floor and feel your back against it.
Put cold water on your wrists.
Pet something with texture—cat fur, fuzzy blanket, carpet.
Let it be small. Let it be enough.
And This: You’re Not Broken. You’re Becoming Aware.
This feeling of “I must be secretly crazy” is what happens when awareness outpaces self-compassion. You see so much—every layer, every loop—but you haven’t yet built the muscle of letting that awareness exist without policing it.
The part of you that’s noticing is not a problem.
The part of you that panics about noticing is not a problem.
The part that thinks “maybe I’m broken” is not a problem.
They’re all trying to help.
You’re not doing it wrong.
You’re feeling the cost of finally having the space to feel.
And that hurts like hell—but it’s not madness. It’s recovery.
<<Okay ... So what do I do? Cuz right now I just don't know what to do with myself. Sometimes I feel like I'm in prison, just doing my time, in the rhythm of the facility. And that one day my life will start again. But that I have to try. I need to put effort into my emotional recovery. But I worry often about whether I'm approaching it from the right angle. Notice? Have compassion? Name? Presence? It's all so much>>
You’re in a moment where the pressure to "do it right" has become the thing that's keeping you stuck.
That tension—between needing to try and not knowing how—is exhausting. You’re not lazy. You’re not avoiding. You’re just standing in front of a giant, unsorted pile of self without a container. So let’s start by giving it one.
Let’s Reframe the Entire Assignment
Instead of:
“What am I supposed to do to fix myself emotionally right now?”
Try:
“What will help me be just slightly less imprisoned by this moment?”
That’s it. That’s the only metric that matters right now.
Emotional recovery is not a job. It’s not a productivity goal. It’s not a moral test. It’s just... the slow, uneven process of being in your body again. Even if it feels awful in there.
Here’s a Practical Path Forward (No Pressure, Just Options)
These are not steps to “do healing right.”
They’re just anchors for when you don’t know what to do with yourself.
1. Choose a Role for the Day (One Word)
Instead of obsessing over how to feel better, give your day a tone. One word. Not an outcome. Just a role to experiment with.
Examples:
Observer – “Today I will just watch how I react to things.”
Caretaker – “Today I will treat myself like someone who’s recovering from surgery.”
Wanderer – “Today I’ll try to move without needing a goal.”
Archivist – “Today I’ll journal, not to explain but just to collect.”
Hostage Negotiator – “Today I’ll talk gently to the panic instead of yelling at it.”
Pick one in the morning. Let it be a soft lens. Don’t measure anything. Just wear it like a loose jacket.
2. Build a Repeatable “Emotional Reset Loop” (15–20 Minutes Max)
Here’s one you can try today:
A. Breathe + Drop into Your Senses (3 min)
Sit still. Feel your body in the chair. Name 3 sounds.
Don’t calm down. Just notice.
Say, “This is where I am. That’s enough for now.”
B. Write 5 Lines in a Journal (5 min)
Use the prompt:
“Right now, the hardest part is...”
“I wish I could tell someone that...”
“If this had a shape, it would be...”
No analysis. No deep dives. Just write. Then stop.
C. One Movement or Sensory Act (5–10 min)
Rock in a chair
Lay flat on your back and breathe into your belly
Massage your feet
Touch something cold or warm
Listen to one song you loved at age 13
End by saying:
“I did something kind for myself. That counts.”
3. Stop Trying to Be “Present.” Try to Be Located.
“Presence” is a loaded term. It sounds spiritual and vague. But location is specific and grounding.
Ask:
Where is my body in space?
What does the air feel like?
What part of my body is the most tense? The most relaxed?
This isn’t about finding peace. It’s about finding coordinates. And that’s enough.
What You’re Feeling Is Called the “Lull”
It’s the after of the runaway train. The adrenaline is fading. The panic doesn’t know where to go. You’re not in fight-or-flight anymore—but you haven’t built your life rhythm yet.
So it feels like prison.
But it’s not prison. It’s a transit station.
And right now, your only job is to make the bench you're sitting on a little more comfortable while you wait for the next train to arrive.
Not the next crisis.
Not the next big goal.
Just the next real moment where you can say,
“I’m here. And I’m still trying.”
That’s more than enough.
