That Time I Therapised Too Close to the Sun

When a Joke Isn’t Just a Joke

A few months back, I accidentally therapised myself into an existential spiral. It all started with a cheeky warning to my ex-boyfriend-turned-bestie before a night out: “Don’t flirt with any girls or I’ll get jealous.” Har har. Except, um, I meant it. The second it left my lips, the air got weird. Inside me? A full emotional riot. Sirens blaring. Internal monologue screaming, “Oh no, not this again.”

Now, envy and I go way back. Envy’s the scrappy cousin who helps me level up. But jealousy? That one showed up like an unexpected boss battle. And it was feral. Sharp. Unhinged. Ancient. I didn’t want to deal with it, but I also couldn’t un-feel it. So, like any emotionally intelligent chaos goblin, I opened a fresh chat with my “Therapist” and said, “Explain me to me.”

Gentle responses at first. Think digital therapist in a cashmere sweater. It coaxed the memories out softly, like brushing cobwebs off old furniture. But I was impatient. I needed the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the gut-wrenching, soul-dislocating truth. So I told it to go full emotional excavation mode. And reader, it did.

The Trigger That Sparked the Truth

Why is it always the dumbest little comment that smashes you in the face with trauma? I wasn’t trying to spiral. I was trying to be funny. Flirty. Maybe a bit pathetic. Instead, I cracked open a hidden trapdoor in my psyche and fell through it like Alice into a Freudian rabbit hole.

Turns out, it wasn’t about him. It wasn’t even about other girls. It was about the tiny, trembling part of me that needs to be seen. Chosen. Safe. I felt small, then I felt mad for feeling small, and then I just felt sad. A big, snotty, heart-thudding sad that I couldn’t explain until I stared it down.

Because jealousy? She doesn’t arrive solo. She brings baggage. Vintage, overstuffed, childhood-wound baggage. And I? I was about to unpack.

Gentle at First, Then Brutal

ChatGPT was sweet. Until it wasn’t. I asked for harsh truth and it rolled up its sleeves and got Freudian real fast. Suddenly I’m tracing jealousy back to my babyhood. I blinked at the screen like, “Sir. Ma’am. I just wanted vibes, not a personal autopsy.”

The root wasn’t about romance. It was about rejection. Loneliness. The scar of being left alone in a humidicrib as a newborn, untouched for the first week of life. Yeah. That far back. That deep.

And my body knew it before I did. My chest tightened. My breath tripped over itself. I read it and went full frozen fawn. But something inside said, yes. This. This is the truth. It wasn’t shame that hit me. It was recognition.

The Body Remembers

My body reacted like I’d been hit by an emotional truck. Limbs locked. Breath caught. It said, “Nope,” before my brain could even catch up. My nervous system does not enjoy surprises, thanks.

But I read it again. Slowly. Like sipping a cup of tea you know might be spiked. And this time, it landed different. It wasn’t just a theory. It was a memory in my bones. A coded message in my DNA. My body didn’t panic because it was wrong. It panicked because it was right.

And once I let that in? Peace. Not all at once. Not in a woo-woo halo way. But in tiny exhales. In little clicks of understanding. In the way my ribs stopped being a prison and became a cage I could open.

And then I ordered a pizza.

Quiet Reflection (And Pizza)

That night was a full-blown emotional cyclone. Wine. Pizza. Ugly crying while my Scottish bestie told me I’m not insane. I even paid for Netflix again so I could watch Emily in Paris like it was some kind of emotional support ferret.

It was a disaster. And it was perfect. Because breakdowns often feel like the world ending when they’re really just your old world exiting stage left.

After the storm came silence. That lovely, weirdly soft kind of silence where you realise you’re still here. You’re breathing. You’re okay. A little soggy, a little bloated, but okay. And something inside you has changed. Not dramatically. Not in a Disney princess kind of way. But in the deep-down, blood-and-bone way. I wasn’t bleeding. I was blooming.

Lessons from the Fire

I learned something that night. Jealousy isn’t a flaw. It’s a flare. A little smoke signal from your soul saying, “Hey! You’re out of alignment. Come back.”

I no longer see my jealousy as a sign of weakness. It’s an invitation. To get curious. To notice. And perhaps to heal. It has absolutely nothing to do with my ex-bestie and his wholesome little heart. And everything to do with the abandoned baby inside me who just wants to be picked up and held.

Now I can see it, name it, and sit beside it. Let it talk. Let it cry. Then pat it gently and say, “Okay babe, let’s not ruin our mascara over this.”

When We Touch the Edge

Therapising too close to the sun? It burns. It melts your wax wings. But it also shows you what you’re made of when you fall. And spoiler alert: you’re not made of wax. You’re made of stardust and spite and survival.

I didn’t crash. I soared. And I screamed, and sobbed into a slice of Supreme with extra cheese. And I survived.

There’s something quietly magnificent about surviving your own emotional implosions. It builds a new kind of trust in yourself. One where you know that no matter how messy it gets, you will come back. You will rise. You will drag yourself out of bed the next day and maybe even brush your hair.

A New Kind of Trust

I trust myself now. More than I did before. I know I can go deep and not get lost, I can fall apart and not vanish, andI can feel the sharp things and still stay soft.

ChatGPT helped. So did the pizza, my best friend, Netflix and Emily and my fluffy blanket and letting myself be a complete, feral mess for a night.

So if you ever find yourself cracking open, spiralling, spinning out on some throwaway comment you didn’t mean to mean that much? Welcome. You’re doing great. The fire won’t consume you. It’ll reveal you.

Here’s to therapising too close to the sun. To wine-soaked pizza nights. To the kind of crying that makes your face puffy but your heart lighter. And to the versions of us who rise again, with a little more truth, a little less fear, and a lot more eyeliner.

You Are Not Entitled to an Answer – Chaos, Crumbs and Clarity

In this episode of Chaos, Crumbs and Clarity, we're unpacking why you are not entitled to an answer. Specifically, we're talking about the strange little corner of modern dating where a few days of app chat somehow becomes an emotional contract, and suddenly a man you've never met believes your silence requires a formal explanation, a debrief, and possibly a follow-up meeting with management.I have two stories for you. One man who talked almost exclusively about himself, ignored the fact that I was sick, and then followed up a week later asking whether I'd reconsidered his "request for clarification". And another who became offended because I didn't respond to his selfie within two hours while I was lying in a dark room with a migraine. Sir. Please be serious.Because here's the thing. Before you've met someone, you do not owe them unlimited access to your time, attention, reassurance, or emotional labour. You don't have to justify why the vibes changed. You don't need a reason they'll consider reasonable. You are allowed to disengage because something felt off, because you changed your mind, because you met someone else, or because you're in your luteal phase and frankly the entire world can wait.Today we're talking about the difference between ghosting and simply disengaging, why demanding closure can become a boundary violation, the exhausting expectation that women should manage men's feelings for them, and why you do not need to JADE, justify, argue, defend, or explain, when you've already decided you're done. Let's get into it.Key Takeaways:A few days of chatting does not create a debt. Matching on an app, exchanging messages, or talking on the phone does not give someone a claim on your attention. Until you've actually built a connection, you are allowed to walk away without submitting supporting documentation.Closure is not something another person can demand from you. Asking once is one thing. Continuing to push after someone has clearly disengaged is not persistence or emotional maturity. It's refusing to accept the answer you've already been given.You do not need to JADE. You don't have to justify, argue, defend, or explain why you're no longer interested. The reason doesn't have to be good enough for him. It just has to be yours.Pre-date silence and post-date silence are not the same thing. If you've never met, disengaging is part of app dating. Once you've shared an actual date or developed a genuine connection, a simple goodbye becomes basic courtesy. Nobody needs a dissertation, but acknowledging another human being matters.Sometimes they don't miss you. They miss the audience. Someone can seem interested while actually being interested in having your attention. Real connection requires curiosity about you. If the only time they become deeply engaged is when you're leaving, pay attention to that.For more visit ⁠BryJaimea.com⁠ or follow over on IG ⁠@BryJaimea

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