i’ve recently started off each day with a good cry.
i don’t mean good in the sense that it feels better once i do it. i mean a good, strong, ugly, big, fat cry so i can put on my pants without sobbing. or leave the house without having a panic attack. or burst into tears when i’m feeling avocados for ripeness in the produce aisle at the grocery store.
because i’ve done all of that already this week. and i’m at a point now, where i know i need to let out at least some of those tears before i even attempt to put on makeup, or meet a friend for coffee- because if i don’t get it out of my system, it has a tendency to creep up on me when i least expect it. and the last thing i need right now, is for the homeless people on the busiest street in my city neighbourhood to look at me like i’m a fucking lunatic.
even though i feel like a fucking lunatic.
and it’s not the icky kind of hurt you get after a boy leaves you, or the kind that stings your skin- like a scrape.
it’s the kind that swallows your insides whole. the kind of pain that sucker-punches you in the gut when you’re already down. the kind that knocks your head into the wall when you already have a migraine. the kind that makes you feel like you’re about to throw up, and you shiver every time you’re forced to keep it down. it’s a pain so real, so dark, so fucking consuming that it hurts to swing my legs over the side of my bed, so i can stand up and start my day. because i already know the worst part of every day is realizing i’ll have to sleep only to wake up at some point and start over again. hour, after hour, after day, after week.
i’ve been without work for seven months. i’ve been without love, and stability, and confidence, and comfort, and money for equally as long. i hadn’t a real clue as to what that kind of lack, or loss could do to a person. i used to envy this life. envy a life of sleep and irresponsibility and carelessness and freedom.
but now i just feel broken.
and how cliché is that?
i’ve spent all of this time putting on some sort of show, but the curtain inevitably closed, and the walls finally caved in, and when everyone had eventually left the theatre, there wasn’t anyone left to save me. i can’t remember ever feeling so helpless. and for the first time i’m crying out for someone to reach down, grab my hand, and pull me from the darkness… but i don’t feel any better. in fact i only feel worse when i admit defeat when i’m still living it.
i know i’ll pull through.
the way i pulled through countless times before this.
it’s just really hard to see the light at the end of the tunnel when i feel this fucking trapped.