Birthdays have never been an issue until very recently. On the precipice of a new one, I’ve turned eerily inward. Nightmares are vivid, long and rampant. A scorched heart vibrates anger paired with sorrow. Eclipsed only by shame for not overcoming what should’ve been defeated in 08’. Unanswered questions in pillowy letters loop in bold, italics, “You are the problem in your life.”
Dissipating anger for my doctors swapped by anger at “disease”, my disease, a disease that defines me instead of me defining it. Fixating on time and opportunities lost. They vanished into the fog at a time when I thought my yarn was spinning together. Incapable of forging onward with a degree of purpose, stuck between who I was and who I want to be. The answer resides in the middle. I know it. I see it. Yet, I can’t seem to live it.