I’m doing it again: Not eating, not sleeping, and waiting to disappear into nothing. I want help, it’s hard to call out. This is what eight weeks of struggling looks like. Eight weeks, and all I can do is write it down in a place where no one will see it. I’m crying out into a void. This is my struggle. It’s thrashing in dark, murky waters, and having to make the quick second decision of whether to take a breath or scream for help when you break the surface. You can only do one or the other. Both seem to be pretty fruitless. You wonder why you even bother. Every time you try, something pulls you right back down.
I’ve had so much happen, good and bad, but I can’t ever find the energy to write it down. I promised myself that I would, that I wouldn’t become a shadow, that I would fight for this life and leave my mark in stone. But when I reached for it, chisel in hand, I realized it was all sand. I’ve been writing my name and my story in sand, something that’ll blow away in even the lightest breezes. So it never makes it to print. I spend hours fighting myself in front of a flickering screen, typing up my travels, and then deleting it all. “Who cares? Why bother?” I fight with myself, and maybe I’ll gain enough clarity to retype my message, only to delete it again.
Old wounds itch like wool sweaters. I thought I was getting better. I don’t want to be this way. Heaven and hell, I’d love to be what I once was- bright, full of life, happy, out going. I wish I could feel anything other than this profound sadness. I wish I could know how to be any other way. I keep looking into my reflection, hoping to see someone other than who I am now. Someone better, smarter, kinder, stronger… Someone who can smile, despite all the hardships… Someone who can appreciate and celebrate the victories and achievements… I can’t do that. I’ve won some battles over the last month, but it didn’t even phase me. Good news rolls right over my shoulders, completely insignificant. I cannot feel it.
I don’t want money, status, fame, glory, sex, I don’t need anything more than what I have- except for a heart. A whole heart. I want to reach wellness. It almost sounds like a myth to me. Is happiness real? Is it something achievable? Is it feasible? Where is it? Do human beings really experience joy, and hope, and anger, and curiosity, and anything other than misery and sorrow? What’s it like to hunger? What’s it like to know?
This is one relapse out of thousands, and of many more to come. But this is also another timid step forward into tomorrow. I’m trying to talk myself out of publishing this again. I’m tired, I’m broken, but I’m trying. It’s all I know how to do.
I need to get out more. Being in this house all the time isn’t helping me any. It only serves the madness. It’s funny. Tomorrow, I’ve decided to make steps to be in this house as little as possible. But tomorrow is also my anniversary of living with my fiance. 4 years we’ve lived in this home, and on the very day, I’m thinking of any excuse to stay away from it.
I’ve gotta be more than this sadness.