This wind is icy

I falter every time I attempt to release. I stall every time I start to feel. It all starts the same, causes the same uncertainty and I never get to the point. I’m on a treadmill, I’m a simulation… on a loop.

I feel so boxed up all week that I collapse every weekend, but can’t seem to find the space to unravel myself, and sort out all the tangles. I try. I try every single week. But all I get is panic attacks, self-loathing, isolating tears, and a whole lot of words to hurt my love for the sake of healing myself.

Underneath all that is why I’m so heavy, feel so dull, and have put all the walls up. It’s all pretty simple. I just can’t reach it. It frustrates me that life itself overwhelms me. I feel that I’m a total failure, since how complex is my life anyway? Surely I can do better at it than this?

I WANT to grow, release, glow up… but my inner critic delights in reminding me that the only good thing I’ve done in my life, in the eyes of the mother that I only want acceptance from, is my half-god offspring. And Lo, I start to crave codependence. A new sickness that I can fuel the flames of, and really dig into.

How can I feel so empty when I’m so full of all these thoughts and feelings and behaviours that no longer serve me. How do I feel so unstable in a house that makes me feel trapped, a suburb that makes me feel encroached upon, and a town that breeds anxiety in me. How on earth am I always so nauseous. These physiological symptoms are just feeding my mental state. Feeding the darkness. Perpetuating the cycle.

I know I can’t start the next chapter until I let go of the last one. But despite being so loved, and so supported, I simply don’t feel that I’ll have anyone to catch me when I fall. Not because they won’t be there, but because they can’t. Because I’m too heavy. Too challenging. Too much.

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