Schockelasrull

Picture of a small white and black dog walking on a leash held by someone who's out of frame. It walks on a sandy path that's located between trees on one side and a cloudy.

Schockelasrull? My non-Luxembourgish readers may wonder what it is – well, let me tell you, it’s pure bliss in the shape of pastry. The French call it pain au chocolat and it’s been a bit of a staple comfort food in my home ever since a friend told me that two of the grocery stores I regularly buy food at have vegan Schockelasrullen. How did I not know that?!

Anyways, I have indulged in this chocolate-y deliciousness quite a bit over the past couple of weeks and I have zero regrets even though my body seems to be signalling (quite aggressively, might I add) that it’s time to cut down on my Schockelasrull consumption a little bit, which I am considering unless life gets too hard. You know, I might need to continue eating the pastries to keep my spirits somewhat high.

Last week I told my family about a recent work achievement (and where they could check it out) because I was excited about it and somewhat proud – admitting this almost makes me feel guilty and a little afraid of coming across as too pretentious and not humble enough.
And guess what happened?
Nothing. Absofreakinlutely nothing. No one reacted and I guess no one even bothered to check it out. And I was disappointed, just like I always used to be.
And then I realised that this is my “mother wound”, the original wound. I remember sharing things with family, hoping to receive some enthusiasm or encouragement in return and then barely getting a reaction or, probably worse, a negative reaction, which almost always crushed me. Over the years, I learned to refrain from sharing meaningful (to me) things with family members because their reaction or the lack thereof always drained me of my joy. And yet, a little part of me keeps hoping that if only my achievements were worthy enough, then my family would surely react the way I would like them to. And this makes me quite sad because everything I struggle with in life always seems to come back to this.

If only I was good enough, then people would show me that they care about (or even love?) me.

This wound of mine has been getting triggered in some of my non-family relationships as well, no matter their nature. I react strongly to people either ignoring the things I share or them not caring all that much even when I made it clear that it’s important to me. When they then seem to show a lot more interest in other people (or even strangers), that tips me over the edge (and I’m well-aware where this particular wound came from). I need people in my life to be genuinely interested in what’s going on in my life, to ask questions and to celebrate my achievements with me, and I’ll make sure to return the favour or, like I prefer to call it, the bare minimum.

That being said, the best relationships in my life have been the ones where an ongoing* mutual interest in each other was shared and also demonstrated. Wanting to know what’s going on in other people’s lives and asking questions is the only way to connect with and get to know them on a deeper level, and it’s also the prerequisite for wanting to open up to somebody and be vulnerable in their presence.

In a seemingly unrelated (but probably not!) fashion, a few days ago, I was unexpectedly struck by various physical ailments that over the last months hadn’t been as present as they used to – hence the potential need to cut down on the sugar and gluten that unfortunately come with Schockelasrullen. What came along with that physical sensation was a major load of general discomfort and then my energy levels took a serious hit, to the extent that I was constantly too exhausted for anything: getting up in the morning, going to work, being at work or basically just being, despite the fact that I got plenty of sleep. My brain was foggy all the time and I could barely concentrate on anything. Getting some work done? Watching a movie? Mission impossible!
The only sensation at my disposal seemed to be the one of melancholy. I felt slow, sluggish and overall too tired for life, and the feelings that were easily accessible to me at all times were sadness and a hint of despair, each time immediately followed by a general numbness, which may have been my body’s way to shut down those big feelings that were susceptible to cause me harm, given that I wasn’t in a state of being able to handle them.

Whenever this happens, I wonder which came first: the physical discomfort and the pain or the mental unwellness. Given that I hadn’t really seen it coming this time around, I believe that the physical struggle reared its head(s) first. And I can assure you, it’s really difficult to be (and most importantly stay) in good spirits when your body’s not on your side. It was especially hard this time around since I was exhausted and brain-foggy but at the same time completely restless and therefore unable to just chill and wait it out. I desperately needed a distraction from my anxious thoughts, but I was confined to the couch because my body forced me to. I was basically trapped in my own head with nowhere else to go, so I doomscrolled on social media a lot, which – surprise, surprise! – didn’t contribute to my mental state getting any better. This proves that my physical and mental state may not be as detached from each other as I’d like them to be and that the latter can determine how bad the former is going to get – to some extent. At the same time, I don’t want to gaslight myself by saying it’s all in my head because that’s simply not true, so it’s probably safe to say that all this also works the other way around: my physical condition really does have a serious impact on my mental wellbeing.

Today’s the first day I’ve felt better and more like myself again. And I guess I should definitely work on lowering my Schockelasrull consumption so it’ll keep going that way…


*This doesn’t mean that one must constantly check in with each other – the meaning of “ongoing” varies depending on the type of relationship.

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