I woke up and stared at my ceiling for about twenty five minutes before I stopped beating the shit out of myself and crawled out of bed. It was Monday and 9:45 in the morning, a day and time where most people were awake and already hours into their lives, traffic jams, and water cooler convos.
By 10am, I had a coffee in one hand and a pen in the other. I reached for my journal, sat down at my kitchen table and wrote down the date. Every time I write the date, I cringe at how much time has gone by, how many years have passed and how I’m still waiting for the day when I can put it all behind me. As if someday soon a UPS guy will ring my doorbell, ask me to sign for a package covered in "HANDLE WITH CARE" stickers, containing a brand new life, a whole new plot line, and a letter from the heavens that reads:
I had nothing to journal, nothing to report, nothing worth recording. I had a million and one things I wanted to complain about, but keeping written track of what pissed me off didn’t seem like I’d be moving in the right direction, the right direction being NOT pissed off, so instead I spent ten minutes staring at a blank page.
I had much on my mind. The night before, my partner was trying to get me to comprehend how little I was enjoying my life, and how much time I was spending trying fix myself, so that I’d be ready for the world when It came calling.
“You need to get out into the world to see how much you’ve grown, so you can measure yourself against other people to see who and what you really are.” He knew more then anyone how different and out of place I felt.
As I replayed the conversation in my head, I watched a bus pick up its passengers through my window.
Where were they all going?
Did they know how much they had grown?
Did they know who and what they really were?
Could they see me staring?
“You think something bad is going to happen when you get out into the world. You think there’s bad things waiting for you.”
His words echoed in my mind like some soap opera memory sequence. He had hit the nail on the head. I was scared. As if shit luck and horrible experiences were waiting for me to resurface, so they could pick up from where we left off.
I began to cry.
I was trying so hard to get a job, I had so many wonderful people helping me get back on my feet, I had a writer I admired, coaching me. But even with all that awesomeness, I couldn’t help worrying. It seemed as though worrying was the only language my brain spoke lately. I remembered a version of myself that was quite opposite of that and wondered where she’d run off to. I hadn’t seen or heard from her in a long time. I assumed she’d hoofed it to the forgotten parts of my subconscious, the parts where she could dance on wobbly tables or skateboard without a helmet
... must be nice.
But I’ve digressed.
With my emotions being so amplified as they are, I’m not the prettiest crier. My face scrunches up and begins to look like a cats butt, pink and tight. I guess the need to cry hits a little harder and my face can’t handle it.
As I stood in my kitchen, cat butt crying, I really wanted to get on that bus and run away from myself. I wasn't learning anything from my thoughts that I didn't already know, so why at 10 am... were they harassing me?
I hadn’t even finished my coffee for fucks sake! I started that day beating myself up in my own head, but soon I was about to kick my own physical ass if my brain didn’t cut the “YOU SUCK!” train of thoughts.
Dividing yourself into two people like that can’t be good.
Wanting to beat yourself up means you’ve divided yourself into two people, the ass kicker and the ass being kicked. And in every ass beating, someone’s got to lose. So one part of you is the loser, making you... 1 part loser.
“I’m not a criminal. I’m not a bad guy or evil do-er. So why the beef? Have I really done anything all that wrong that I deserve to go toe to toe with myself every morning?” I thought out loud.
I looked around.
No one was there yet it felt like there were thirty people standing around giving me grief. I sipped my coffee then sat back down at the table with my journal and wrote:
“I don’t have much to say today.”
I closed the book and began to listen to all the worries in my head. I didn’t have much to say, they but they sure did.