It’s become so bad that I can’t even cry. I feel the pressure building in my chest, like a ton of bricks suffocating me. I know if I scream it will help, but I can’t. Is it fear of letting go, of losing control, of opening Pandora’s Box? Once I start, will I be able to stop? I’m afraid of the emotions, the hurt, and the pain that I have stuffed away for so long. Will I be buried under it all, will it over take me? Once I let it all out, can I ever put it back into organized little labeled manageable boxes? Then again, is it manageable now? The answer is no.
37 years of hoarding, stacking, piling, stuffing, jamming, pushing, and compressing emotions, feelings, pain, hurts, disappointments, failures, loss, and grief. It’s all become too much to bare. There aren’t any more nooks and crannies to fill; they are literally bursting at the seams. I giant teetering mess that at any moment will come crushing down upon me. How long before the great crash? How long before I completely fall apart?
When it seems like I’m finally getting somewhere, making
progress; life, the universe, god, whatever you want to call it says, nope, I
don’t think so. Then again, maybe it’s me saying no. My way of trying to
control the few things I am able to, but instead of pushing toward success, I
choose the other path. The only one I feel like I’m worthy of, the one where
nothing gets better.
Am I responsible for all that I’m feeling, am I the one
creating my own pain and misery, my own demise? Early on in my life, other
people made me feel like I wasn’t good enough. No wait, they TOLD me I wasn’t
good enough. Years and years of abuse, neglect, and torture have me convinced
I’m no good, and I don’t deserve love or happiness. How does one move on from
that? Can you?
I had so many dreams as a little girl, about where I would
end up and all the amazing things I would do, but of course none of it happened.
How could I make it happen when no one believed in me, when I didn’t and still
don’t know how to believe in myself? I don’t hate my life, it’s not a horrible
one, but I’m not fulfilled in my life, it’s meaningless to me. I wanted to make
a difference, but I don’t feel like I do.
Yes I have a good job where I make great money, and it can
be interesting and challenging, but it’s just a job. My passion for it
decreases daily as it becomes more and more routine, or is too challenging
because I’ve convinced myself I’ll never be great at it. Maybe it’s because I’m
so close to actually accomplishing something, that I’m sabotaging myself. The
thought of completing something and it going unnoticed, of no one making a big
deal about it, about me, hurts me too greatly. Yes, at this age, I still crave
acknowledgements for my accomplishments. Still that pathetic little girl
wanting her parents to be proud, but who never seemed to be.
This will be the first thing since I was a kid that I will
finish, and that terrifies me.
