I stand, legs straddling a divide, a chasm. Wind whistles beneath me, around my jeans and through my shoes. I’m standing on nothing, staring into who I’ve been, where I’ve been. Things I’ve done. Hands that have touched even when I’ve said no. Mistakes, regrets, eyesores.
From up here, it doesn’t feel quite so bad. I can stand on this edge, on it’s crumbling sides, and stare upwards, the great beyond, full of clouds, uncertainty and possibility.
The problem with having a dream is finding the courage after so long to make it happen. To break free of all the if’s, and’s and why’s clinging to your skin.
I stand between these places, haunted, trembling, and ultimately alone. It’s my battle, and my story.
I’m not terribly found of this precipice. In my life, I’ve always had roads, clearly cut, defined options, black and white. I find my life now full of greys, multiple shades that alternately tickle and slap. I’m shaken by hope, and not just a little scared of it.
Squirt in a dose of low grade depression, the kind that settles in for the long haul, the kind that absently mentions that being dead would be the easy answer*, the way out-just slip out the door into a new outfit or something, and moving in any direction right now is, for me, like standing over the void. I cannot see. I cannot move. I’m frozen, torn between yelling at my tormentors and walking past them, totally unable to do anything.
If it weren’t for customers or family, I wouldn’t say barely 10 words all day to a real live human. And I’m not quite sure small children count. I draw inwards with this, my constant conversation reminding myself what I do have, where I have been.
Nattering back, moneymoneymoney worries, worries about child care, worries about our roof and our lawn and my hair and the children’s hair and the front porch, curiously full of flies all Amityville style. Worry, my constant vocal companion, fills me up past comprehension with problems and issues until I sit staring blankly at a paper I can’t bear to ruin by writing on. Or at least that’s the excuse I give myself at 31, when I can’t write a fucking list of things I need to do, and what order I need to do them.
It’s a slow burn, and I’m hovering above an abyss, lacking the power I need to fly upwards. It’s a lonely, painful burn staring from the inside at an adult who can’t be an adult, who cries at everything, who feels stabbed in the heart even at simple things like an old couple holding hands. So starved I feel, of some elusive feeling or place. I look at the things around me, my mess of a lawn and home, my dirty children, my unkempt self and wonder how the fuck did I get here? How is this 31, working some shit fucking job I worked at 22, how am I right back there, except with 2 more mouths to feed?
How did I let this all happen?
I want to fly. I want to take a running leap, and glide straight up, into the clouds, into a place I cannot predict or mediate or control. I want to fly into that future, and be loved, and love there, find my place and center.
But let’s face it. I can’t balance a checkbook or drive a car, and I’m completely, and utterly terrified.
*Please note that this is not in any way, shape or form ideation-it’s garden variety annoying depressive voice, who is shooed away, plan-less and balless, every time he dares to speak up. And yes, he IS a boy.