I pride myself on bouncing back, on finding my way out of a situation no matter how dark or weary. No matter how much hell I find myself in, I pride myself on continuing to walk, stumble, or crawl– but never stopping. The pain would subside, I knew. Just as I knew that I would come out on top.
But strangely, for the first time in my life, I have failed. I have tasted failure. Failure tastes acidic, it tastes like blood. It tastes like landing face first on the sidewalk, it tastes like slipping from a balance beam when all eyes are on you, it tastes like missing the first step in a staircase and never regaining your balance.
I have felt great pain, I have felt my heart cleave into several pieces, I have felt my soul writhing, I have felt common sense flee from my life.
I have felt great pain, and I have stitched everything back together. My heart healed, and I moved on with life.
However, I am coming up short. Perhaps it is the hand I’ve dealt myself, for I take responsibility for my life, but I am struggling more than ever to wade through everything.
I’m wading through the fires, but for now, I am stuck.
