I got hijacked this weekend. Not by extortionists or terrorists or carjackers. Instead, I got hijacked by my own emotions.
It started when my mom, whom I haven’t seen in a couple of years, had to cancel a trip I’d arranged for her to visit me in Boulder. Even though I know my mom is as disappointed as I am and that we will find another time for her to come, I got triggered by old, old childhood stuff. “I’m alone in the world,” I told myself. “I’ll never be able to recreate the sense of family I had as a child.” And, more Eeyore-like, “There’s no point in looking forward to things because I just end up getting disappointed.”
Before I knew it, I’d been hijacked by my stories, and they were holding me hostage in an isolated, dark, depressing little room.