I miss bleeding in words. I miss the feeling after. Knowing that I’ve put my business out there, feeling too vulnerable with the world..and yet feeling safe. As if shame exposed doesn’t hold the same power. As if being vulnerable with the world is one little way to feel connected to it. To no one in particular. There is some beauty in being a relatable stranger.
And yet the words won’t come.
Not that I struggle with writing, but my pain these days doesn’t come in words. It lacks coherent ways of explaining itself.
Being alive nowadays is to be extremely unsure on whether to go back to therapy or not. It is to wonder what exactly I shall say when I get there.
Unlike the changes and transitions I had when younger, that gave me a lighter version of myself, this feels like trying out different versions of myself, and none fit exactly.
It is to have dreams and hopes and not work on them. It is to keep on hoping that life settles and each new week finds it unsettled.
It is to be in familiar places outwardly but strange places inside. Different body, or at least it feels like it, that has different requirements. A soul that feels weary and hopeful alternatingly. A mind that is purely and utterly tired. A heart that seems to run on a never ending supply of feelings. And a life that though not too bad, not too life-like either.
I miss the days when I had clear struggles. When I knew the monsters I was fighting. When I knew the demons and the size of the closet full of my skeletons. It felt overwhelming, as if I wouldn’t get over that, but it was familiar, discernible and could be described.
Or maybe it’s a quarter life crisis. Except that I feel closer to a disillusioned 80 year old man than a twenty something year old woman.
There is a part of me that is weary. And that has been weary for quite a while. A part of me that understands that friend of mine that wanted to die before 30. Not in a suicidal way. In a let me sit under this tree and stare into the hills kind of way. The kind of weary that doesn’t even have the energy to get rid of itself or do anything about it.
There is a part of me that is exhausted. Really exhausted. Not necessarily with work. Not even with life. Just exhausted.
And then there is a part of me that is alive. A small part of me. A tiny part of me. The one that wakes up excited to make stuff to glue to my scrapbook, something I’ve always wanted to do. Tiny little pleasures. But the purity of it! Like a clear clean small stream gently flowing.
And then there are the migraines. They nowadays come knocking each time I feel overwhelmed. And given how often that is, I’m a little worried about their arrival. Because on one side the universe hates seeing me sad. Sounds weird but at my absolute worst, something magical always happens to make me smile. It’s how I know that things are bad, when something is sent to comfort me because that doesn’t happen with normal everyday stress. These migraines seem to be following the same step. Forcing me to deal with stuff lest my body fails on me. It’s not a good position to be in especially when wallowing in despair has its own comfort.
At some point I thought that this year would get better. Kept reading the stars and they always promised something in the horizon. But I no longer have the strength for hope, nor for optimism.
Long time ago rock bottom felt bad and good at the same time. Knowing that the worst has happened. And the only way is up.
This doesn’t feel like rock bottom. It feels like flying without landing for months. And running out of fuel. And the map getting old and torn. Lost. Somewhere. Unfamiliar. Not happy, not sad.
Should I be grateful that I made it here? Happy about it? I don’t know. Unless the tides change.