How to snap out of a funk

Blast your senses with something visceral to break the cycle

I began this post under a dark stormcloud. I was wringing out my frustration and angst about my life and where I am right now, but it read like a burn book of Los Angeles. My working title was “Asking myself why I live in LA,” because I do, often.

Traffic exhausts me. Nobody is friendly. No one makes eye contact unless absolutely required. Whenever I try to go anywhere, someone is in my way. Nobody notices how great I am. Why am I single? Why is dating so awful? Why are street surfaces such garbage? Why is there always garbage in the street? Sad homeless people are everywhere. Everything is a grind. Everything is expensive. I had a $17 sandwich I didn’t like. I scraped a rim on the curb. I had to look at my checking account and pay bills. I wrestled with the decision to fly Burbank to Tampa with a layover or LAX to Tampa nonstop. Is a nonstop worth the royal hassle of LAX? My A/C is dripping and has been for a week. Maybe I need to shave off my mustache. I wish everyone would go away.

Then at 5pm sharp, I stopped. 

I changed into shorts, put on my sneakers and a hat, and I walked to yoga. I was still agitated, glaring at drivers I had to make eye contact with on my walk because I never know if a car will stop. When I arrived, I told the teacher I was glad to be there because I really needed some Zen stillness.

I used the 75 minutes of class to really let go. I breathed and sighed with emphasis. I didn’t think. My body took over. I saw two fire trucks roar by the studio and my spirits lifted.

Then I walked home, ate dinner while I watched a Tarot reading, and hopped in the pool for a thrash around. I had a drag off my weed vape. I took a shower, enjoying the new shadows cast from the sunset light in my bathroom, which was askew after Rosa, my cleaning lady, had cleaned and moved things around.

I often have epiphanies and insights sitting and standing in the shower, which makes them hard to capture. But these were good ones, so I remember them.

I realized that sometimes, you just have to snap out of it.

In other words, I’d been in a funk the last day or two, feeling sorry for myself and grumpy about my worries. Uninspired and avoidant. Angry at the inequality and narcissism and entitlement in LA, and in the world. In those moments I can’t think clearly. I can hardly function.

But then I stuck to a plan—to attend yoga practice, a weekly habit I genuinely look forward to, and I gave my mind a break to focus on the physical. I exhaled all that shit and inhaled something fresh and new.

“If you would just get out of your own way…you’d be successful.” 

Chris the Tarot reader had said this in one way or another the last few of his weekly readings. Back in the shower, I thought about what he said as I stared down at my naked body. It struck me that I tend to always pay attention to what my mom would have done, because she’s dead and I miss her every day.

She used to call my funks sinking spells.

But what about my dad, who’s still alive. What does Michael do in a moment of existential crisis?

He’d say make a plan. Get ruthlessly honest, stop feeding your emotional hysterics, develop a clear-minded strategy, and commit to it. Then laugh at your worries. Chuckle at the affairs of humans, and snap out of it. SNAP OUT OF IT. I used to hate when he’d say that to me.

Jesus. How could I overlook one entire half of the wisdom that’s within me? I can’t solve all my problems by rearranging the furniture or making some art. Some challenges require a sober plan of attack—Dad’s specialty.

After this mind-blowing shower brainstorm, I decided to write before I forgot everything. Once I’d captured what felt most pressing, I hopped in my car bound for the grocery store, a quick twelve minute cruise up the freeway.

Donald Byrd’s “Places and Spaces” played and I had another ah-ha moment. I focus a lot on the lousy walkability of Los Angeles. It’s a spread out, congested, hot pavement and swooshing traffic sort of place. Walking here almost always feels extra dangerous, which is one of my biggest complaints about it. As I wrote before, my dream city is 100% walkable, a place where I can have a car but don’t require one. But what I fail to appreciate are the moments of automotive bliss—hurdling up the Glendale Freeway (a.k.a. The 2) with no traffic, Debbie in her element at Autobahn speeds.

What if I leaned in to what the city does well, rather than harp on what it doesn’t?

Likewise, I constantly stress over the squeaks and rattles in a 26-year old car, worried that every sound or bit of feedback is a fatal flaw. Well I can’t hear any squeaks and rattles over the high fidelity sound of a Bose stereo. The surface of the road isn’t any better, but my attention is tuned to something sweeter.

My dad used to do the same thing. He’d take his vintage Porsche out for a drive, enjoying the notes of the air-cooled engine and letting the wind whipping through its Targa top clear his mind. Or he’d go see a movie in the middle of the day, a habit I never understood until now.

I don’t know if my story rings familiar to others, but during these sorts of spells, I believe it’s important to do something visceral and physical to break the mind out of its cage. Something that engages the body’s senses and requires focus on something like driving, hiking, cooking or watching a movie.

As I came to remember, and as many wise philosophers and mystics have suggested, my dad included, sometimes a simple shift in perspective is all that’s needed to end a “sinking spell.” To snap out of a funk, consider that there’s always a different perspective on a situation, and always something sweet to appreciate about your life.