It’s hard to imagine everything turning out fine when dates keep getting pushed further and further back. I keep trying to imagine what it will be like to finally be in that place after the change has occurred, but all I see is myself hung out in the middle of a clothesline – no longer close enough to be where I once was and no further along to finally reach that next step. Developing a backbone to hold myself for however long I need to sustain whatever comes my way from now on has challenged me in ways I’d been trying to avoid. For years, I became a master in maneuvering through that which I did not want broached, and until now, I had been successful. But the thing about dodging sensitive topics is just because you move safely out of its way doesn’t mean the thing hasn’t hit something behind you, and that force will eventually come back to shove you to the ground.
This past week has been one of the hardest I’ve had to deal with in a long time. Harder, perhaps, because of the impending delicacy of a situation, the fact that that delicacy has stewed in a large, boiling pot of water and has never cooled down. Not to the degree at which I thought it had. Not even close, really. I’ve seen the pot boil to the brim, slosh over the side on occasion, and every now and then spit out a scalding bead of water onto the tender skin of those who got too close. Last night, a piece of my resolve gave out. It hung like a torn slice of fabric off my back. I wanted to rip off the whole garment, fling it into the pot, and let it burn. I was done. I wanted to be done. But what remained of my resolve would not let me have too much control over myself. Or maybe it wasn’t resolve at all, but the clinging power of fear wrapped around me – a tentacled, sticky demon that refused to let me go.
Sometimes I wonder why my life is so complicated. It’s not that I expect it to be easy. I know people’s lives are generally complicated. But, sometimes I wonder why my life has to be complicated in the way that it is. I have often wondered what the purpose of this complication or that complication is in my life. What it is it doing for me? should I assume all complications are given to us to make us stronger. What was the point of making me the spineless kid boys made fun of in middle school? What was the point of making me worry about everything? What was the point of making it harder for me to love others, to feel compassion, to be selfish, to struggle with patience, to find more solace in daydreams than in reality? All of the things that make life so hard for me – what is the point of them?
I’m not trying to complain. I know that I am the way I am for a reason, and that I want to be a different version of myself for a reason, and that I struggle with all of these things for a reason. But, sometimes, when I try to think about the cosmic scheme of things, I wonder why. And then I try to calculate it.
