I’m trying. I really am. Every day when I wake up and look in the mirror, I tell myself all those positive things the therapists and self-help books tell you to say: “You are a valuable person. It’s okay to not be perfect because no one is. You have empathy and talent. You are worthwhile. There are people who love you just as you are, faults and all. You are lovable.” Sometimes I even believe a small part of what I say, but mostly I look into my eyes and see a nothing person. But I promise, I am trying to find reasons to be alive.
I see everything as though I am peering through a thick, black fog. The haze is so real I can taste it. It leaves a heavy metallic taste on my tongue. My eyes feel gritty from trying to see beyond the haze, so I often just close them. When I am home, I try to sleep, but dozing is the best I can do. My mind is filled with every demon from my past chasing me into a corner. I fight the urge to just surrender. Giving up, surrendering, seems so alluring and easy, and yet I still fight. Something in me makes me keep fighting.
I think it would be better now, but life circumstances are conspiring against my healing. My dog, who is one of my huge reasons for living, is back in the emergency hospital with seizures again. I ache for him. Another financial problem reared up to cause even more stress. And then, of course, there is J, who is herself teetering on the edge of mania gone wild.
I can almost see the edge of the cloud, but my fingertips are tired; they ache to let go and just let my body and soul fall into the abyss.
Life circumstances are hard right now, and that is not helping.