Page 271 of Disarm
– Lying in bed, scared my brain will pull some shit.
– Volume: 7.
– Thought: “You’re going to do it again. You’re just waiting.”
Under “what I did,” I write:
– Froze. Stared at the ceiling. Tried not to move in case movement broke something.
– Eventually texted Miguel. He came and sat on the floor and read some stupid article out loud until I fell asleep.
Under “what I could try next time,” the list stays blank for a long time. My brain offers the classics: run, hide, numb, and burn it all down.
Sam walks by, glances at my page, and taps the empty space with his pen. “You know what you’re good at?” he says quietly.
“Being a hot mess?” I murmur.
“Also that,” he says, lips twitching. “But I was going to say, naming things. You’re very specific. That’s a skill. Distress tolerance is about giving your nervous system something else to do. Not instead of the feeling, but alongside it.”
I stare at the paper.
Fine.
I write:
– Ice pack on my face or neck.
– Breathe like Miguel taught me. In 4, hold, out 6.
– Text Dr. K or make a draft email I don’t send.
– Ask Miguel to just be in the room, no talking, no fixing.
The pen hesitates. I add, slower:
– Remind myself: I made it through the last wave. I might make it through this one too.
The last sentence feels like a maybe.
Which is more than it would’ve felt like a month ago.
We cycle through skills like stations at a gym.
Emotion regulation. Opposite action. Checking the facts when your brain is an unreliable narrator.
My brain: You are a storm everyone else is sandbagging against.
DBT worksheet: Is there any evidence for that?
Me: Uh, have you met me?
Also me, grudgingly: People keep showing up. That counts as something.
We do a mindfulness exercise where we have to eat a raisin like it’s the first time we’ve seen one. I hate raisins on principle, but I play along. Roll it between my fingers. Taste the sweetness, the weird chew.
I’m alive enough to hate raisins.
There’s something comforting about a room full of people trying, very awkwardly, to stay on the planet. Nobody’s impressed. Nobody’s horrified. When I say “attempt,” half the group nods like, “Yeah, so you mean Tuesday.”
