Fifty three years of life on this planet have culminated in this moment of not quite what I’d call, “despair,”
but, rather a substantial dislike of being alive. Systems are breaking down,
weight is going up, Fatigue is a constant companion, and Joy has flipped me the
bird and taken off for sunnier pastures. Infidelity visited a few years ago, and
wrecked everything in sight, leaving Confidence and Trust broken and whimpering
amidst the ruins of Love. For five years, I’ve wandered around the remains
picking up pieces only to toss them aside again, no longer knowing how they fit
together. The ghosts of the past whisper with increasing persistence “you promised
yourself you’d never let anyone do this to you again, and yet here you are, you
old, broken, fool.”
Each passing day the frustration, the irritation, and the
aggravation with Life grows. How can I be 53 years old and not know who I am or
where I’m going? How did my belly turn into an oddly stretched out, pinkish bowl
of pudding that has to be folded in to the waistband of my irritating,
Incredible Shrinking Pants? How did I end up in yet another relationship that
has left me hating the woman in the mirror because she bears an uncanny resemblance
to the girl whose father convinced her she was worthless and unlovable? After all
this time…how in the HELL have I not learned that love songs were never about
me?!
The morbid yet somewhat humorous thought occurs to me that most people
would be rather shocked at me being taken out by Me. “She was always laughing!”
“She was so outgoing and funny!” Maybe I’d also become “loved by everyone,” “so
incredibly talented,” and, “the rock of her family.” Doubtful. But, maybe. Death
makes dull people suddenly quite interesting and amazing. “Wickedly, witty she
was, that Amy!”
Inappropriate thoughts aside, the questions surrounding the
darkness in me remain. WHY am I so unhappy, and WHAT exactly do I do to “fix”
it? Is it the circumstances of my life that I find depressing, and what part
have I played in creating those circumstances? Will flipping the table over,
kicking the door shut behind me, and calling it quits fix anything, or just
create more misery? Do I have the strength and the willpower to make necessary
changes if I conclude that changes are indeed necessary? Am I okay enough with
Me to start over, or have I spent too much of my
life loathing myself instead of loving myself to ever be at peace? Can what’s broken in
my house be repaired? Do I want it to be, or am I just picking
through the debris to find the keepsakes before packing up and seeking shelter
elsewhere? What if all houses can be broken? What if what I build again with
painstaking care to make it impenetrable, sturdy, and strong, turns out to be
just another shack made of straw? What if? What if…
“Here lies Amy.
Wickedly funny, and the greatest juggler to ever live.
Beloved by name, but felt loved by none.
She wished to live in a fortress, but in the end, only had enough bricks to surround her heart.”
