On some days I feel like a woman in her mid-forties, convinced that her life is already over, nothing else to see or explore. Not being able to achieve any more big things, stagnating.
Having to feel good about what you’ve accomplished while simultaneously grieving all of the paths you didn’t take, even though you don’t know whether you would have gotten run over down the road at some point. On some days my dad’s metaphor of the goldfish being taken out of the tank and being thrown into the ocean where sharks await me becomes pretty accurate.
I wonder why making calls is still a terrifying thing to me sometimes, as well as approaching a shop assistant that could have saved me from running down the aisles for about half an hour, searching for something I cannot find.
The world is a scary place to find myself in. Often I’m not really sure which direction to take or where to place my feet. Most times I still slide away even if the ground looked safe.
I’m still confused by cardinal points, they don’t wanna get me anywhere, and I know it sounds naive, but I still expect myself to go north when going straight forward. Maybe that’s the reason why none of my actions caused the outcomes I had expected.
My desk is a messy place with too many post-its that remind me of to-dos and appointments. The clock doesn’t seem to have as many hours as I actually need. A week equals 168 hours which contain
12 hours of watching shows
6 hours of complaining
4 hours of worrying
2 hours of obsessively checking my phone
50 minutes of therapy
48 minutes of brushing one’s teeth
3 hours of scrolling through other people’s lives
half an hour of looking for my keys
24 minutes of typing and deleting the message that should have reached somebody I don’t feel as close with anymore
42 minutes of making excuses
5 minutes of failing to open the door
10 minutes of examining my bangs
100 minutes of applying make-up
35 minutes of getting it off
140 minutes of scratching my skin clean
14 minutes spent in front of the mirror, telling me I got this
4 minutes rehearsing a smile that is not mine
55 minutes of admiring Dottie James’ beauty
62 minutes of wondering why I am not Rupi Kaur – yet!
First dates are usually a nervous smile, a nerve-wrecking matter, trying to make out whether I’m sitting in front of a psychopath while shoving my own flaws and imperfections under the rug to make myself seem more presentable.
Is he the One?
Could I see myself being with him?
How could I possibly mess this up?
What if we have an awful date? That awkward and uncomfortable we’ll decide to never ever go on a date again? What if this happens and he’s actually the One? What if I miss the oppurtunity of a lifetime? Will I cry after him, trying to find somebody just like him while he finds the perfect woman, marries her, and settles down in a perfect city where he moves into a cute little house in which he raises his 3 sons called Calum, Seth and John, who are either intelligent, creative or musical, maybe even all three at once and who end up in real-estate, universities or hospitals in their adult lives, all wealthy and successful?
I swear, on some days it feels as if an infant would navigate my brain. Why are bananas yellow? Why is the sky blue? Why can’t we have icecream for dinner? What do you do when you and daddy go in the bedroom in the afternoon? Can we go to the forest and look for a unicorn? Lisa said she’s seen one once.
It’s a playground, a place to be at when you should be doing other things. Obsessing about the littlest things and giving details more meaning than there actually is. My mind is time-consuming, my feelings a time-bomb, and if you catch me on a really bad day, I might spill all of the things I never intended you to know. See, now there’s yet another thing to worry about.
Recovering from your own mind takes patience. It is a child you wanna scream at, it is also a parent whose expectations you’ve let down. Forgiving yourself takes patience. I’m either stuck with where my past mistakes got me or doing the same mistakes all over again. I haven’t been brave enough lately, haven’t exposed myself to curious eyes and judging tongues.
My own tongue has been the home for hundreds of complaints,
My teeth aligned like soldiers, the only barrier to stop my excuses from running over the border.
It’s been too many to get hold of, lastly all of them escaped, setting an example for all of the ones yet to come.
I wish I could tie stones to my worries and drown them in a lake nearby. Pull them out of my head like weeds, eradicating their roots because I’m tired that they grow back again and again.
I haven’t been to war but I know what posttraumatic stress feels like. And after all I just want to make it home.
– Written by Julia