This is a very important post for me, because I think its the beginning of something that's been crushed down inside me for a while. Barely existing, and yet pulsing - writhing - trying to escape. It's also important because I usually only write when I know exactly what I'm trying to say, when I have the conclusion already in mind, when I feel adequate to be heard. And none of those things are true right now. All I have to go off of is a feeling, one that's unmistakable but also kind of hard to identify. I'm full of disappointment, and hurt, and hopelessness. Anxiety, listlessness. I feel let down by just about everyone, but even more so, by myself. I have no direction, no spark. And it sucks, because this was supposed to be my time, my season. I feel like I'm holding my breath, that this can't possibly be what I'm destined to live with for the rest of my life. That this, too, shall pass. But I've already toyed with the line between disappointment and despair, and it's so, so easy to become immersed in that. To feel suffocated and immobilized, like those dreams where you're trying to run but you physically can't make your limbs move because you feel like you're under water.
And I honestly don't understand. I told myself for so long that everything would be better once I was free. I didn't think it would be gone, but I thought I'd be able to handle it. And then, barely weeks after I took my first breath of free air, I nearly lost the will to go on. I'd never felt agony like that before. But it wasn't acute, it was endless. I couldn't remember what it was like to not feel that crushing pain in my chest, the world around me going dark. That was my reality. And nobody in the entire world knew what it was like to feel like I did. I didn't want to feel better, I just wanted to feel nothing. But it wasn't like normal pain, where you can identify it's location and cause. It was me. I didn't know what it was like to exist outside of that. And even after those death hours when I stepped outside, just hours before 2018, I knew it wasn't gone. I kept saying things like, "Wow, I almost didn't make it to this year!" and "It's so weird, I feel like that was a completely different person back there." But what I really meant was, this isn't me. I didn't make it to this year, because the real me is still lying on the bathroom floor. I don't recognize this body walking around. I don't believe any of the words she's saying. She isn't real. I'm not real.
Sometimes I look around and wonder where everyone went. But then, if I can't recognize myself, how could I expect anyone else to? How could I blame them? I'm not providing anything to anyone right now. I don't qualify as a friend. I'm a charity case. I'm torn between releasing myself from people who don't serve me, who don't have my best interests at heart, and condemning myself for daring to have higher standards because I'm a shit person myself. How can I expect grace and care and patience and empathy from others, when who knows how many people feel abandoned or betrayed by me? Because when I left myself, I left them too. I probably deserve this.
How selfish can you be? You really think this is worth sulking about? How many people out there have it worse than you do, both in their heads and on the outside? How much self pity are you going to be consumed with before you do us all a favor and just leave?
I was supposed to be rediscovering myself. Redefining myself. Becoming a new, confident, fearless person who wasn't afraid to stare shit down. I was supposed to be in the mountains right now. Shouting from their peaks with no one to tell me to be quiet, no shame in making a scene.
I was starting from scratch, but I was ready. I knew then that I was a different person already, or at least becoming one. And I had just a few people who saw me for who I was becoming, recognized that light shining through this rough shell. Were ready to see me break through, and fly. It was all I needed. Then I blinked, and they were gone. And I watched as my body crumbled to pieces and felt the weight of a million heartbreaks.
I don't know where I am. I must be hiding somewhere. Most of me, anyway. There must be just a tiny bit of me left in my body for me to be writing this. Don't be surprised if it's gone after this. Every day is a toss-up. Is it going to be the numb kind, or the frantic kind? I know it doesn't have to be like this. I can get help. That was the plan all along. But it's like I'm immobilized. I can't even get out of bed some days. How the hell am I supposed to make it into someone's office? Why is the world like this? We all have enough things that are killing us from the inside. Why do we have to cause more chaos around us?
So many questions, churning around in my head. All at once. I know I don't have to answer them. They're big questions. But what am I supposed to do, ignore them? Pretend they don't exist? When those questions are things like, how many more kids and black people are going to die before we do something? The parents who bury their children don't get to ignore that question. Or, what's the point in fighting for a better world when we're all going to die anyways? I can pretend as long as I want, but the end's going to come eventually.
Maybe one day, I'll actually look back on this and not recognize the person who wrote it. But I feel like the likely outcome, best case scenario, is that she's always here, but just not the dominant one. I'll be able to occupy her a little at a time while I move forward.