Last night, emerging from a particularly deep social media hole, I told my husband “I feel grumpy.”
He asked a reasonable question - “Why do you feel like that?”
To which I (naturally) lied. “I don’t know! I just do!”
Obviously I could have told him it was because I had spent the last 30 minutes in a toxic comparison spiral via instagram and twitter, but I did not take that path. He asked another reasonable question - “Is there anything I can do?”
This time, I told the truth, which was, no. I had made my proverbial shitty attitude bed and I would have to crawl my way out of it. I mused that maybe I would take a shower, my tried-and-true method for a mood reset. He murmured in agreement, eyes back on the Warriors game.
I pondered what music I should play in the shower. My brain went straight to my most melancholy playlist, and I felt annoyed with myself for wanting to wallow while also rebelliously reasoning that I shouldn’t force myself to choose something I wasn’t in the mood for. I got up and thought about walking into the bathroom. Instead, I slouched over to the couch and laid down next to our puppy. Maybe this would work instead.
But, instead of focusing on her breathing, how silky her ears are, or her puppy paws, I TOOK MY PHONE OUT AGAIN. I must emphasize that I was far past consuming content from anyone I truly care about, the stories and posts in my feed now mostly influencers and celebs that I still have not unfollowed. Finally my feed informed me that I was “all caught up!” with a green check mark, as though I had accomplished something. Feeling sick with myself, I stood up woozily and informed Sam that I needed to cuddle. My first good idea in the last hour, but still no match for my unshakeable gloom.
Eventually I took a sad girl shower c/o the National, and got into bed. Sam, despite the Warriors losing a close game, was very chipper. He showered after me, Lykke Li blasting from the bathroom while I lay in bed and continued to feel like garbage. He came out in a towel, dancing goofily. The contrast between our energies was bothering me. He was either oblivious to my mood or trying very hard to shake me loose, probably the latter. Finally I asked him to tone it down and just get in bed already (in not so many words). He acquiesced and asked “So the shower didn’t work, huh?”
“Nope.” I replied despondently, turning away from him. I pictured myself laying as I was, pitiful in bed for no good reason. My self-loathing whispered at me that it was insanely stupid to get this worked up over basically nothing. Again, I saw myself as though I was floating above my own bed and tried to access some kindness for the gangly creature. Once, I had a therapist who recommended that when I am dealing with self-loathing, I should try to imagine how I would talk to someone I really love who is experiencing the exact same problem or thought pattern. I usually think of my little sister. If she had worked herself into a similar dither, what would I say to her?
I would probably tell her to get some rest. With this is mind, I resolved not to beat myself up with thoughts of my “wasted evening” - I would read my book, go to sleep, and try again tomorrow. Sam tucked Murphy into her crate and said “Goodnight, my little calzone.”
Somehow this simple statement, and the image of her as a calzone (no legs, just a tail and head emerging from either end of a golden-brown lump of dough) zapped my brain enough to finally start engaging with Sam in a nice way. I shared my theory as to why calzones are always disappointing - no way for the cheese to get that bubbled top layer, so crucial to the textural landscape of a good pizza. He pondered about where in Italy calzones had originated. For the next 15 minutes, he read me several articles about the differences between a calzone and stromboli.
And somehow, magically, I was free.
My little sister and I came up with the term “moodybroody” to convey the state of being angsty and actively participating/perpetuating the angsty-ness. It is an active state, rather than passive. It is doubling down and continuing to scroll IG even when you know constant comparison is souring your mood. It is listening to the National (an activity that can only be safely performed under very specific circumstances - cooking, driving in good weather, studying in good weather) in the shower after spending all evening feeling blue. Feeding the beast, so to speak.
Or, to use another metaphor, feeding the flame. (Get used to these long-winded analogies, this is just *what I do*)
Picture a spark that creates a fire. The spark must have somewhere to land, fuel to burn, and an accelerant like oxygen in order for it to truly grow.
The initial catalyst for my moodiness (instagram) sparked a disposition that was subsequently fueled/fed by my tendency to brood and linger in a bad mood. Taken together, this was enough to sufficiently start and stoke the flames. The accelerant that really got things going was my self-loathing, which formed as I recognized the long-worn pattern that had emerged for the millionth time. I had been feeding a bad-mood bonfire, which grew quickly out of my control when I added shame to the mix.
💥 + 🪵 + 💨 = 🔥
📱+ 📱 + (🚿🎶😓) + 🤦🏼♀️ = 🔥🔥🔥
In order to fight a fire, you don’t try to go all the way back to the spark. It’s too late for that. You can try to douse the flames with water or foam, but sometimes even those methods are insufficient. Extinguishing a fire by depriving it of oxygen is the most efficient solution, but difficult to pull off in most real-world situation. In my case, the fire raging in my brain had started as simple malaise, but with the accelerant of shame it had spread into a veritable bonfire of existential frustration.
The exercise of imagining myself as my sister, accepting my moodiness, and refusing to dwell in my perceived failure is what finally extinguished my shame. Acceptance and grace choked off the flow of self-hatred. Once the accelerant of self-loathing was sufficiently blocked, the flames died down to embers.
What happened next - Sam calling Murphy a calzone - landed on my exhausted brain like a splash of cold water. It was a relief to realize I was delighted by the nickname. Minutes ago, in the throes of distraught self-flagellation, I had found Sam’s cheerful antics grating. Now it was a welcome balm. I once told someone that Sam is good for me because his easygoing goofiness “distracts me from my lame, constant ennui.” I still think that’s true, but it’s somewhat incomplete.
I’m not just distracted, I have changed. I no longer want to stay sad, which will either sound like a very odd and obvious thing to say or it will resonate strongly. I work to deprogram myself from romanticizing or dwelling in negative emotions (s/o fellow Enneagram 4s). And while I may still have days or evenings of moodiness, or indulge in a good sulk, it never lasts as long as it used to (watch this video for a generous and practical exploration of the often-maligned sulk).
I love that video! But back to the metaphor (I am almost done!) - the resolution for my moodybrooding bonfire was actually not from the calzone comment, although that is what I initially set out to write towards. I planned to explore why Sam’s temperament is good for me. But the reality is that his prior attempts at levity were unsuccessful. His silly dancing and singing splashed against the flames of my despondency like a cup of water to a campfire. It can’t be just about him making me feel better. I have the responsibility to calm myself to the degree that I’m receptive to his bids, to stifle the flames into embers that can then be cooled and extinguished by water (I’m done now, I promise!). In the end, it was a team effort.
So today, I’m thankful to have a partner/teammate who tried again and again to make me smile even when he’d been met with a frown for the last few hours. And I’m thankful for the acceptance that I gave myself, however begrudgingly, however eventually. I fell asleep that night genuinely happy, the fire in my brain replaced by cool contentment (oops).
The major difference between a calzone and a stromboli is how they are sealed. For a comparison to other delicious things: a calzone is like a soft pizza taco, and a stromboli is like a tomato and cheese burrito. Tacos and calzones are always folded. Burritos and stromboli are always rolled. Stromboli are superior and a fun word to say.
Welp...you just made moody broody riveting!:)