Yes, you read that correctly. I’m doing it again. That thing where I push hard against life and break myself a little against its force. Some people take a little while to learn their lessons, I suppose and this is mine.
As I sit here, writing emails and responding to requests, I’m upset and annoyed and frustrated. I want things to move along, I want what’s out there in my future and I want it all now. Sick of patiently waiting for my turn, tired of trying and trying and failing all the time. Over working hard and being in the same place.
I’m sick of it not being me.
Sometimes I get to a point where I want to cry and scream and cry some more. But I don’t. Plastering on a smile and more make-up to hide the sleepless nights I keep going. Keep trying, keep moving forward but I know I’m ready for this. This time has prepared me as I worked and stretched every piece of me.
I know myself better than ever before. But it doesn’t come and it’s not for wanting or trying; or not wanting or not trying and I lose myself in a spiral of voices. They shout at me the things I can’t handle hearing about myself. The things I’ve tried to prove aren’t true. Poking and prodding and torturing me. I hate them.
I seethe with jealousy; it flood my veins and pulses there. Just below the surface the thump of jealousy is pumped around with my blood. Hearing it rush in my ears as my heart starts to beat and I want to throw up from keeping it firmly pushed down. Hidden so badly.
It’s everywhere again; my go to emotion and indulgence at the moment. An indulgence to hide that there’s more to do now, more work to be done. I fight the reasoning behind why I have to do it. Wondering why I have to refocus and start over. Why it happens to me and not you.
You think you know but you don’t.
You felt a pin’s prick of it and swiftly it passed. A moment, a fleeting moment, that was allowed to pass. It doesn’t pass for me. You haven’t grieved for a past you don’t have and a future that might never arrive. There isn’t nothing but the darkness and the possibility of it never-ending.
When you live with that, with it never-ending, it’s easier to give up. To stop and just cry. Rather than lace up your shoes again. Or face those tests again. To put in the work to be passed over again. You haven’t been here. You don’t know.
Or maybe you have.
…
Having slept badly and worn myself out, I’m exhausted and it hurts. I know what there is to be done. That one foot needs to be placed in front of another. Soon, I’ll come out the other side of this. Please let it be soon.
