Even Michael Buble can't make my spirit sway toward the light. I am not drowning. If I was, I would be in bed with the pillows marshmallowing my face. I am not at an impasse. I am at , not a fork int the road, perhaps, maybe, I am on the edges of the pages of my life. They are frayed, worn, yellowed, and smell great. Dusty old book life. I am in the spot where I slowly cut through the plastic wrap around my heart and mind. Depressing, but more of an unknown that is terrifying- but I long for it so exceedingly that I cannot stay here. But it is terrifying to leave. Why have I been daydreaming about becoming a shut in. Daydreaming that once I accepted agoraphobia that I would be truly in a constant and continual state of relief. This is just not true. WTF. :) I knew this. I know that I knew this all along. I also know that I knew if it could just happen it would be true. But I knew it wouldn't. I love myself. I have faith in myself, to a degree. I am safe. My life has slowly curled tighter and tighter around the insatiable hunger and thirst for safety. Now what do I do? Knowing that safety is sterile, in my case. Sterility is not how I want to live. That is terrifying to admit, to accept, and where the fuck is my twelve-step program?
I thought that I was above the mess. Not fully. Just enough to be free to the ankles. I am now discovering, unpleasantly, that I am 5 feet under. At least now I have an oxygen tank. So. I have realized that I did not know how to breathe, did not know how to swim and have been floating sideways and upside down in my desire for safety over life. So. God help me. Help me. Help me. Help me.
Not depressed. Just fetal. But conscious, now. Fully? Not yet.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment