The weeks since you said it out loud in a session — I can't keep doing this — have been their own kind of ride. Days switching from positive to negative, peaks too high, troughs too deep.
Your out loud was right. You can't. But you do all the same.
There isn't another way?
Except one session you said it's not as bad. It hasn't gone, but it's easier to deal with. And then the switch back the other way became a noticeable event. Not an involuntary climb or plunge. More a slow change, almost like you could control it.
Which is what you did.
The days between the peak and the descent got longer. The journey slower, not as steep. Instead of strapped in and hanging on for dear life, you've time to check the view. Even get off.
Resist the temptation.
To buy another ticket and jump straight back on. Because jumping on is normal, and this other thing, pausing, is okay but a little unnerving. It doesn't feel familiar at all. So it can't be normal either.
Normal is such a precious gift.
Which means you want to hang on to it. Grip it tight, fight off anything that threatens to take it away. You almost exhaust yourself being vigilant, and then.
It happens. The ride that's too fast, too far, too long.
Which is when it occurred to you. You have some control here. A word you think you heard — autonomy, or was it agency? Whichever it was, you found a brake. Slowed down. Managed to get off.
It's taken a few days to recover, because it was a surprise ride. But you've had time to check your pockets and throw away a lot of tickets that say admit for one ride.
You might even have spoken to the attendant, who told you your car was ready to go whenever you wanted it. You've resisted the offer. And even said so out loud.
A quiet no, at first. Then one that grew, firm with the attendant even when he pushed back.
Let's hang a sign. Closed for repair and redesign.