Beaten about and beset on all sides and wondering why.
Do I even remember jumping in the water?
You live with them.
I scream this to myself every day
I perpetually compare. Why can’t I be better. (I’m not)
Why can’t I be thinner? ( I love cake)
Why can’t I play guitar? (I don’t have enough time to practice)
Why aren’t I acting? (I don’t have enough time to act. And maybe I’m not that good.)
Why don’t I have my next book done already? ( I don’t have enough time to write)
Why don’t I have support? (I don’t have enough time for friends. And I’m an anxious wreck)
Why am I a single mom? (I’m too much and not enough and self-pitying and he left me for someone better)
Why am I unlovable? (Can anyone love a rose bush? A rose, yes, elegant. Silken. Beautiful. But not the bush. Try to hug a rose bush? You’ll end the night bleeding.)
See. I don’t just have questions. I have answers too.
Yes. Hyperbolic and exaggerated and defeatist answers. Answers that take away my agency and put blame somewhere else where it less painful. Bullshit answers.
But do I have choices?
In some sense yes. We all do.
Can we choose to murder the asshole neighbor? Sure. That choice means prison. In that scenario you can’t complain behind bars, asking why. You have the answer.
I guess I made my choices.
Would be so much easier if there was a god or a fate that called this down. Then it wouldn’t be my fault.
But it is my fault.
And I don’t know how to fix it.
Bloodied my knuckles against the wall I built
And then mourn the loss when I lose the fingers from the infected I dragged through the skin.
I’m living with choices.
Most days, I can.
Some day, just seeing some else’s choice is crushing. The luxury of going out for a beer with a friend seems so unreasonable and unreachable that I might as well be coveting drinking youth syrup from a gondola in Atlantis.
How to stop?
Let the current take you?
Fuck that. I’m not drowning.
Fight against it?
I guess that’s what’s left.