sometimes i don't think i have it in me.
to be the writer, to be the friend, to be the daughter, to be the citizen, to be the lover, to be the human i want to be.
i always picture myself just not being able to quite get there.
when i was younger, i would have dreams about being chased. someone, something, i couldn't see would chase me and i would run and run and run...and then i couldn't run anymore. or i couldn't run fast enough. or i fell. and the thing, the someone, would reach me. and i would wake up in a cold sweat.
sometimes it sort of feels like that...except instead i am running a race. no one is chasing me, but i fall or give up or slow down and everyone else overtakes me and i let them. i let them pass me by. i let them do better. i let them grab all the things i wanted and worked for. and i decide to sit right there, moments from the finish line, because i am tired and not sure what the point of finishing is.
when i am depressed and/or anxious, this numbness and heaviness comes back and it slows me down. it silences me. it keeps me glued to the couch, unable to move. it creates a list of things i want to do, but won't be able to. it creates panic and disappointment as i sit immovable, as i sit wasting time, as i sit letting others pass me by.
this probably isn't a secret. maybe the secret is just that i struggle with this more than i ever say. maybe the secret is when i get here, to this place, down this hole, i feel so inadequate, so useless, so... maybe the secret is that i am exhausted from trying to keep myself from tripping lately. maybe the secret is just how embarrassed i feel about this.