Back in my 20s, I never really thought about how life was
going to go when I reached a certain age. I didn’t have a
Lelaina-Pierce-I’m-really-going-to-be-somebody-by-the-age-of-23 life plan. But,
after you’ve lived long enough, you’d think life would at least give you a
break and things would make sense. Stuff you worried about back then ought to
stay there—in the past—and you think you’d be well-equipped by now to handle things, or
your life would just be so on point that there would barely be any issues at
all.
Like right now. I am not okay. I am the complete opposite of
okay. We’ve been taught our whole lives to maintain an aura of invincibility,
to never acknowledge vulnerability or admit to feelings of weakness or despair.
But I can’t do it anymore. I’m exhausted putting on this façade of normalcy and
appearing like I’m keeping everything together.
I’m sure I’m not the only one. In fact just a few months
ago, two close friends broke down in front of me just one day apart and laid
out all their issues in between nonstop tears. I dropped everything of course
to be with them, and I’m glad I did, even though I’m still unsure if I was of any
help beyond staring at them stoically and mumbling generic words of
encouragement. I was sympathetic, but dispensing practical advice is not one of
my strong suits.
Right now, I feel like I’m in that position myself. I go
about my day as usual, but there are moments when I feel like I’m seconds away
from crumbling. I do the things that needs to be done in order to maintain the appearance
of being a functioning, productive member of society, but there is a large,
gaping hole inside that I have no idea how to fill.
I hesitate asking help from anyone because I know—I KNOW—people
are fighting their own demons. Nobody can afford to be co-dependent, least of all
the members of my immediate circle. No way can I bring it up with my family—my mom
has enough things to worry about without me adding some unknown, unidentifiable
malady adding to her list. As for friends—well, it’s mostly the same thing. Plus
the fact that I sometimes feel that the things eating me up inside can’t
possibly compare to what they’re going through. It’s not a competition for who
has the biggest problem, I know, but
sometimes I feel like it is, and always I’m the loser who just has to keep his
mouth shut because worse things are happening to other people just as ill-equipped
to handle them.
Sometimes I hear both sides of the conversation. I’ll be told
to “suck it up,” “just keep pushing,” or even “grow up.” And my favorite: “This,
too, shall pass.” Well, you know what? If you’re asking me to be mature, to
accept what is and let go of what could have been, to be quite frank, I don’t
know if I can do that right now. I don’t need to hear platitudes or some hackneyed
words of comfort. I’d rather stare at the ceiling than hear choruses of “It’ll
be fine,” or “You’ll get over it.”
I don’t know what I need.
All I know is that I feel like crap. I’m so tired of the
routine of everyday life, to keep taking up space in this world and for what? What
are we here for anyway? Funny how I’ve suddenly descended on existentialism,
when I don’t even have the energy to follow through. Who cares? I certainly don’t.
It’s too easy to lay the blame on people—to point at someone
and say, “You. You’re the trigger.” But the truth is, they may have just
uncovered what was already there in the first place. Even I realize that you
can’t fault other people for how they make you feel. People will do what they
want to do—but how you react, that’s all on you.
It’s all on me.
I wasn’t being cynical or facetious when I said “This, too,
shall pass,” is a favorite (okay, maybe I was, a little bit). It’s cliched
because it’s true. But right now, I can’t muster the enthusiasm to look forward
to the day that, this—whatever it is—passes. Because it’s happening now and I’m
in the midst of it. It’s raw and it’s real and no, I don’t feel like it’s an
option to just “snap out of it.” It may have been that way in the past, but this
time feels different. I don’t know why.
But I’ll keep up that veneer of…what? Strength? No. More
like nonchalance. I'm so tired, but I’ll still go to work, I'll still reply to people’s messages, still laugh at their jokes,
and still feign interest at things hurled at me. Because at this point, what's the alternative?
