I am so sad. Crushingly sad. Overwhelmingly sad. Broken, hurting, wounded, writhing…the sadness permeates and cuts and slices. It makes me feel like I’m drowning. I’m completely immersed in an ocean of sadness and unable to breathe. And that causes terror and panic.
I’m sad because I’ve lost so much…and I continue to lose more every day because I fritter away the little time I have remaining. I have no joy. I’ve experienced happiness so few times in my life, I have to think hard to remember a time when I felt the fleeting emotion. I lost my innocence so long ago, I’m not sure I ever knew innocence. I was never really young. Never carefree. I have always had burdens and loads to bear, even when I was a small child. I’ve rarely awakened to a new day and felt optimism. Only fear. Trepidation. Dread. But optimism, excitement about being alive? No. The years have passed so quickly, my youth has been left far behind. I’m…old. Not many years left. Not much (if anything…please tell me there is SOMETHING) to look forward to. And though I’m old, I’ve never truly gotten to live. That’s extremely hurtful.
It’s always been a struggle. A painful, bone-crushing, soul destroying struggle. I struggle to get up, to get dressed, to take care of the daily chores that are required of me. I struggle to face the day, to make the commute to work, to meet the challenges there. I struggle to perform at an adequate level. Never mind excelling…I used to try hard to excel and did a fair job of it, kind of, but I’ve grown too tired and am far too burned out to achieve that level of achievement at this point in life. I used to be so much stronger; so much more capable. But even then, it was hard to do the things most people find easy and natural and normal. I struggle to keep up. Cleaning my house is a major undertaking. Bathrooms are particularly hard. Dusting? Doesn’t happen. Mostly, it stays dirty and I’m ashamed at how dirty it stays. I don’t cook. I microwave (gotta love Steamfresh). I try to play with my dog enough to give her a good life. I fear I even fail at that…I fear she is far too lonely. I want to be a good mom to her, but I’m not, even though I love her with all of my heart. She doesn’t get brushed or bathed often enough. Grooming is a chore. My fault. All my fault. Running errands totally zaps me and makes me crazy. I can’t even keep up with my mail! I’m afraid I’ll forget to pay bills; I’m almost panicked about it! Everything about life is far too difficult. It’s incredibly HARD. It shouldn’t be this HARD. I’m embarrassed at how inadequate I am and how difficult everything is for me when it’s not difficult for others. Shame weighs me down. I’m horrified at my complete inadequacy.
I feel like a quadriplegic. Allegorically speaking, walking is, of course, out of the question. But I’m horribly ashamed that I can’t walk; I try to hide my inadequacy and fake it, pressing through. Going up stairs…simply not gonna happen. I don’t have what it takes. The things that should work just don’t. Getting in and out of the car…hideously difficult. Requires a lot of assistance. But I don’t have assistance. I have to do it alone. I keep pushing and struggling and fighting and trying, trying, trying, failing, failing, failing. The shame is overwhelming. I want to be normal, but if I can’t BE normal, I want to at least not appear to be quite so ABNORMAL. I am terribly sad that I’m abnormal. So sad and ashamed of myself.
The loss crushes me. My shame dismantles me. The sadness washes all the meaning and desire out of my life. I am a broken person. I hate being broken. But I am unable to fix myself. And that is the thing that makes me the most sad. I’m broken and I greatly fear there is no cure. I fear things will never change. What a waste of life.