Moon Notes: I Just Have a Fucking Backstory Now

Is This Thing On?

Nobody asked, but here’s the voice note I would’ve sent my best friend.

Okay, let’s just get to the point.

Nobody fucking warned me that healing would somehow make me more anxious.

Like, cool.

Love that for me.

Because now I KNOW why I suddenly crave a bowl of ice cream when I’m home alone.

And knowing why does not, unfortunately, make me want the ice cream any less.

Ohhh, so this is a coping mechanism?

That shit sounds like some factory hardware type shit.

Like, cool.

My brain has a coping mechanism.

Very fancy.

Now you're probably asking yourself:

“Hey Gera, now that you know what it is, surely you can control it.”

In the words of the greatest ball of orange:

WRONG.

Because apparently my brain was hardwired—and maybe a little voo-dooed—since I was little to basically go:

Oh, you're alone?

Oh, that means you're about to be sad or scared.

But don't worry!

Your parents are gonna come back.

And when they come back, you're gonna be safe again.

And they'll feed you dinner.

And then you'll be happy.

And safe.

Yay!

So now my brain apparently thinks:

Alone + food = less danger + less loneliness + happiness.

Look at me.

Who the fuck do I think I am doing math?

But that's the thing.

I didn't even realize I was doing this for 30-something years.

I just thought, hmm, there's that snack in the fridge calling my name.

And somehow I went all these years never realizing that it happened almost every time I sat home alone.

And now I'm over here connecting dots like some fucked-up detective.

“Ohhh, yes. The ice cream. It all makes sense now.”

Except it doesn't.

Because I'm still standing in the kitchen eating ice cream.

I just have a fucking backstory now.

And honestly?

That's the part nobody tells you about healing.

Yeah, I know the why.

But how the fuck am I supposed to unlearn something I didn't even know I had learned—and have been doing for 30+ years?

This shit is hard, man.

Healing is hard!

Excuse me while I go cry and hug my comfort stegosaurus.

So, in conclusion:

Fuck math.

Long live stegos!

Who's down for some soft serve ice cream margs?