I still get these, these … flashing lights. Something deep in my neural pathways that’s telling me – it’s not okay. You’re not okay. When the lights flash, reality is so broken. I feel broken. All the hope and love that I build throughout the day – watching my children play and say please and eat their broccoli – feeling the ease in my yoga practice – walking out of a lecture theater feeling a little bit wiser – being embraced by someone my soul aches for – yet all that is damaged. And the hope doesn’t linger. Hopelessness can be so crippling. I worked so fucking hard to keep the hope. I gave everything of myself to keep it. Flash. It’s gone.
I hate those moments. And they do linger.
Like cigarette smoke in your clothing. I walk around after, tainted. I feel like people can smell my fear. I feel alone; like someone whom it pains others to see. I reek of desperation and complication. I have dreamed since a child to be simple. Black and white. What you see is what you get.
Yet … what I see has never been okay. What others see has never been okay for me. Its crippling, you know. To feel so busy yet remain so empty. I want to fill myself up. I want to be full.
But still empty. What will it take, do you think? I’ll take the exhaustion. I’ll take the pain and the trials and the mistakes and the sleepless nights. Just fill me up.
Stop the flashing lights.