I was always intrigued by the mere thought of you. Walking within the thick of a crowd, the long anticipated moment would finally arrive as your arms embraced me. I gleamed as if I were a child meeting their hero, nothing but admiration in my eyes and hoping to spend whatever time I had occupying your presence. A nervous-wreck, it took everything for me to balance the excitement that was slipping from the words I somehow managed to string into sentences. Those moments are lost now.
You wake up one morning and you’re 6 years old again. Confused and shocked you begin to experience the world, but this time the world gives you the support you always wanted. Your mother is sitting with you at a small table in the playroom, teaching you how to draw clouds with crayons. Or perhaps your father is helping you up after falling off of a bike, slowly easing you back on to teach you to balance. You get the love that you had always desired but had never received. But at what cost?
What motivates us is failure, whether it’s our fault or not. What gives us true appreciation for happiness, is those moments of having to swallow sadness. Living in a perfect world would not generate perfect people. Living in a perfect world would desensitize your desire to be a better person. It’s time to take your emotional and physical deficits and realize, that you are not defined by that which you don’t have. Rather, you will find self-worth in the growth you experience while working to close those voids.
It wasn’t until I could see the moon rise that I decided to make my way outside to the wooden swing that gently swayed in the wind. After navigating through the dark, I sat down and felt the soft breeze that leaked through the forest behind me gently touch the parts of me that were uncovered. I tried everything I could to organize my thoughts, slow my breathing, and find some sort of peace in the chaos that wrecked my mind. Unfortunately, this type of madness stems from the depths of wounds even I wasn’t aware existed.
I stared into a blank piece of lined paper for possibly an hour, following the margins and tracing the outside edges of the page with my pen. It was unlike me to draw a blank and yet here I was, emptier than I could ever imagine. What could I possibly write? How could I possibly articulate a feeling of nothing.
Impending emotions grow heavy on my chest as mental turns to physical and I am no longer capable of repressing. Not even the sound of my dog’s steady breathing soothes me as I continue to act as though I’m capable of refusing reality. In times like these I would desperately reach out, a phone call away, you’d promise me comfort and soon after I would drift to sleep.
Instead, I find myself in a constant state of self doubt. What was real? What was fake? Who was I to you and who did I become? Never have I ever found myself habitually questioning my own being. Never have I questioned my own words. But I understand now, I understand that sometimes after all is said and done, words turn into nothing.
I pick up my mug with both hands, slowly sipping from the lip and letting the steam gently grace the tip of my nose. Hot tea soothes the back of my throat as I place the mug back down on the nightstand next to me. I can’t seem to remember the last time I was able to sleep soundly without the help of chamomile and melatonin. What a privelage it was to come home from class or work, jump into a cotton abyss and soon after fall victim to my own weariness. Now I’m caught in my monotonous nightly routine: dinner, shower, tea, sleep aid, bed, stare at the ceiling for a couple hours, hopefully get more than 4 hours of sleep.
Come to think of it, before this nightmare of a routine began, what was even crossing my mind during those short moments before sleep? In most cases I’m going to assume it was a controversy between which outfit I was going to wear the next day, or possibly who the next bachelor was on my quest to find love. A common and habitually failing adventure of mine, let me add. Gone are the days of blissful romantics and picking out my outfit the night before, that’s for sure.
It’s quiet. I can hear the ticking of the new clock behind me on the wall, yet time cannot seem to wake me. It is on days like this that I wish someone heard the “quiet” that haunts me. The emptiness that has somehow, without substance, crawled its way into the loudest parts of me, and shut them down.