Some days I feel so close to permanently broken that I am legitimately concerned for my own mental state. I’m afraid I’m losing touch with reality.
Or perhaps, I am already permanently broken, and the moments without this crushing sense of doom are actually moments of sanity, which I now fear.
I feel like I’m wading through emotions that aren’t really mine, but they leave me exhausted most of the time.
I can’t seem to find my place in this world, but I can’t always be locked away in my own space. Which isn’t a safe space at all with the constant specter of homelessness waiting for me in the hall.
Those things that I treasured are no longer inviting, and the things that excite me seem just out of reach. There’s nothing to go back to, I constantly remind me. Those burned bridges are forever behind me.
Even my current ideal of peace is ever evolving and I can’t find my feet, which clearly won’t happen until I find solid ground and stability. Unfortunately, that used to be me.
I don’t know how to be me at this age, and I question who I even was in the ages that came before. I struggle to make a move, dealing with demons I shouldn’t be battling in life at this stage.
My emotions are unstable, balancing on the edge, and the smallest of things cause spontaneous rage. My sense of hope is worn thin, and I am so tired.
I don’t want to push on but I don’t know how to stop. At the same time, I’m terrified of standing still. Yet, here I stand, so much lost of me, everything that defined me, and with all of my searching, I can’t seem to find me.
Every turn I took, each path I chose, led me here. Back against the wall, or bricks in the face, I’m afraid there’s not much more I’m going to be able to take.
Some days, I pray it’s only depression and I’ll once again find my way out, but even I admit I don’t recognize its current expression. The brief recession only leads to more doubt.
I have always been a writer, letting my thoughts and emotions spill out on paper where I can express myself in a way I can’t do verbally. Perhaps because some things are too difficult to verbalize. Some things you can’t bear to say out loud. Once they’re given voice they become living extensions of ourselves. So, at a young age, I began to write. I wrote in notebooks and on notebooks. On scraps of paper and abandoned napkins. My mother saw this and bought me a journal for my birthday one year. I remember flipping through those blank pages envisioning my words written on them, thinking that now, finally, I could say some things! I'm still saying some things.