Occasionally, the surface tension that keeps me floating more or less on the top of my emotions dissolves, and I am plummeted straight down into those cold, strange depths. I come to some time later, sitting on the floor of the bathroom covered in snot and tears, and think to myself, “Oh. This again. How did I get here?” The answer is never a good one, for once I am primed to reach that particular state of emotional turmoil, it only takes the littlest of things to set me off. After that, it’s all I or anyone (particularly my dearly beloved husband) can do to just stand back and let it take its course.

Ditto the same procedure last night, for no particular reason whatsoever. OK, so maybe there was a landfill full of reasons that had been accumulating over the past month or so. But really, why break down then and not another time? I have no idea.

Of course, to my poor rational husband, it must be like watching his otherwise stable wife periodically turn into a werewolf. Who is this self-pitying, irrational, wild-haired and puffy-eyed creature on my floor? Why is she not quietly curled up in bed like every other night? Is it the full moon?

Being the sane and level-headed person that I love, he inevitably tries to reason me out of my transformation, pointing out why all the things I’m obsessing about are really not that big a deal, I’m just overtired and should just try to go to bed and rest. This of course only serves to enrage the beast even more, as throwing rationality at that particular manifestation of my psyche is like trying to douse a bonfire with a paper napkin. It just don’t work, buddy.

In fact, the only thing that does seem to work is giving in to it. Instead of fighting, I just have to endure the overwhelming flow of emotions until whatever needs to be worked out of my system is gone. I let it take its course, and bless his heart, so does my husband, no matter how foreign his wife may become to him in the process. Eventually I emerge, I start making coherent sentences and even jokes again, and am able to crawl into my bed, drained and battered yet clear-headed and ready to face the next buildup of emotional garbage.

I’m not sure if this process is entirely healthy. But I do know that it’s me, and I could no more stop it than I could stop the spring time from inching ever closer to my garden. Personally, I don’t mind it, and I learn a great deal by surrendering to complete irrationality for a short period of time. Ironically, it’s the only way I know how to deal with circumstances in my life that are out of my control. If I stop fighting the good fight just for a short while, and relinquish myself to the forces of chaos instead of trying so hard to hold them back, somehow the craziness of my life doesn’t seem as scary when I return to my ramparts.

In other words, sometimes rationality is entirely overrated.

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