How I Found My Broken Hallelujah pt. 1 of 4

On the eve of the lunar new year, three days before my birthday, I finally threw out the jagged glass pieces of a mug that I had broken six months ago.I never thought it would take me six months to throw out a reminder of one of the worst nights of my life, but here I was.I held it in my hands one last time.I took a few pictures (even though I already had plenty.)I outlined the pink handle and some of the remaining pieces that were still intact with a charcoal pencil on my tracing pad, in case I wanted to create an art project later. (I’ve been super into Oil Pastels lately.)I carefully put the broken pieces in a plastic bag.I broke the mug even further — deliberately this time, for catharsis.And then I let every last piece go.I can tell you why that broken mug was one of my favorites in one sentence —Because it’s perfect.It’s the definition of “pretty girl avenue”: a gorgeous glass mug with a bronze/gold Barbie dream house on the front, and a perfect pink handle. I drank out of it nearly every day from my waterfront patio in San Diego.It also came in a set of two. I still have the other, identical, unbroken mug.So why keep the broken one for six months?Because of how it broke.Here are a few things that happened in the 24 - 48 hours before the broken mug incident.Taylor Swift got engaged, and my corner of the internet exploded.I somehow managed to not to scream at the reception desk I was temping at, when my best friend’s sister texted me the news. It was the biggest explosion of girlhood. My fifteen-year-old self was bursting at the seams.I wrote a spontaneous Substack piece about Taylor’s engagement, which went kind of viral thanks to threads.It was easily my most successful post in over a year. (You can read it here.) I landed on the Substack rising bestseller list. I welcomed many new followers on Threads and Substack. My phone was buzzing nonstop with comments from people resonating with what I wrote + general excitement.I was offered a new temp job that had serious potential to lead to something long-term.It ended up not working out, which is fine because I didn’t really want the actual job— I wanted the consistent income. But the possibility of it at the time was very exciting. (Want to hear something even more exciting? I ended up getting multiple gigs that I liked more, that paid even MORE than the temp gig.)My middle school bestie’s wedding was days away.I was excited, and perhaps a little anxious. I was staying with an incredibly generous friend of hers, whom I had never met before. I knew that I likely wouldn’t know a lot of people there. I also hadn’t been out of New York since last December, after a year of whirlwind travel to and from California.I had a bit of breathing room, financially, after being strapped for almost a year. Most of that money came from selling Hollywood Bowl tickets to see Jesus Christ Superstar. I was absolutely heartbroken, and I knew it was the right call. The tickets sold at the last minute, at a profit. I made my money back and then some. It was the biggest win I’d had in a pretty long time.So, that’s what was happening on the surface. Under the surface, though?The hardest summer of my life was finally coming to an end.The summer I accepted money from a friend to afford my antidepressant medications.The summer I paid for my groceries with $6 worth of quarters, from the AMC Elphaba Popcorn bucket where I stored tips from a toxic service job that I quit in the Spring.The summer I had some of the worst depression I hope I’ll ever have to endure.And after all that, here I was jumping up and down over Taylor Swift’s engagement, with money in my bank account, and tangible success to point to in my writing career when people asked the inevitable “so what do you do?” at the wedding.With all of these good things circling me, I think my nervous system got the memo that I could finally breathe.Enter: Panic Attack. Center Stage.Like always — everything was fine until it wasn’t.I spent the day manning the receptionist desk of a very cool, creative ad agency in Brooklyn, where I had been working for the last two-ish weeks. It was the kind of place where I might have an insanely busy hour or two, but most of the day was pretty chill. It was August in New York City, after all; the entire office was empty half the week.I do remember being pretty overstimulated the afternoon before this panic attack. It was one of those days where everyone seemed to be congregating in the kitchen and its surrounding areas (my ‘deskspace’) nonstop. Think three conversations happening at once, lots of footsteps from the hardwood floor above, the sporadic ding-dong chime of the intercom to alert me of deliveries, and of course — someone telling me that the music in the bathroom was a spidge too loud.Side note — I’ve learned from temping a lot that every office has its thing; that unexplainable thing that no one questions because it’s just part of the culture, even though that ‘thing’ makes no sense to an outsider. Sometimes it’s a very specific ratio of snacks, or the volume of music in the bathroom, or the kind of music in the bathroom, or the way they greet visitors. Other times, it’s the extra set of copies that one particular gift officer needs for the donations she’s processing, even though no one else wants their own personal set of copies. True story. I’m sure this lovely woman had her reasons for having her personal set of copies. She was actually a staff member in an office I worked in for a whole month. I wrote her a thank-you note when I left, because she and her team were so nice to me.I can’t pinpoint overstimulation as the reason for my panic attack, though — as a New Yorker, I’m likely to be overstimulated once a day, even from my own apartment.I remember being tired on the way home from the office. I remember pulling out my phone as the train crossed the water from Brooklyn to Manhattan. I wrote the following lyrics. They kind of came out of thin air.Who I had to be to be with youIs who I am no longerWe had some good times, but now it’s timeI start running furtherYou and I were standing stillThe water’s fine and even stillThe waves are calling, so I won’t be calling you anymoreBy the time I got home, I was still tired but now also deeply uneasy.All I wanted to do was shower, get horizontal, and watch The Summer I Turned Pretty.I didn’t feel better after my shower, or even after lying down in the dark and listening to ASMR. I somehow felt worse.I didn’t immediately realize I was having a panic attack. As is the case with all of my panic attacks, my first thought was “I’m gonna die.”Not a single thing I did helped. It felt like my apartment had turned into an endlessly rocking ship that I couldn’t steer to shore. I couldn’t get steady no matter what I tried. My legs felt so shaky — my feet in particular. I would’ve sworn that they were vibrating.I sat, paced, and at times even shook. I lay on the floor with my legs against the wall. I took another shower, I think, and drank a lot of water. I couldn’t get myself to eat a full meal. Eventually, I curled up in my weighted blanket and finally, finally fell asleep.I don’t fully remember every detail of that harrowing night, but my memories from the following morning are vividly clear.That’s when the mug broke.Subscribe so that you don’t miss Part II! This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit thenuancediaries.substack.com/subscribe