Making it to twenty five was never on my to-do list. I never envisioned that I would be crawling beyond that milestone of a birthday. I didn’t think there would be a celebration, and I didn’t think anyone would know my name.
My story isn’t some deep dark secret in my closet that I never want to creep out. It is hard to be ashamed and secretive when scars literally are visible on my wrists. I don’t have the luxury of choosing to be evasive and full of denial from where my present self has been delivered.
I hate the winter. I hate it because I’m so much more inclined to be hiding inside my apartment, hearing faint ghost whispers of my failures and short comings. Guilt, shame, regret are stock of which I am no longer expected to buy. I don’t have to watch the numbers on Wallstreet because these emotions shouldn’t ravage me, and shake me to the core.
Confession of the day: sometimes I let them.
There are days when I choose pessimism over optimism because I don’t want to cope with disappointment. I choose letting the monster depression strap itself to my skin like a second layer that I can’t shed, because letting it attach is easier than launching a full fledged attack every morning that I rise. Sometimes I opt to look in the mirror and say every negative thought that comes to mind because my worldly eyes don’t require any adjusting. I compare to the Babylon around me and note how much I fail at that because that is much easier than reaching for the higher standard and higher image of myself.
Sometimes I do what is easy and ultimately it is harder.
Sure, temporarily I have chosen the things that are easy. But, end result? More baggage, more unbridled emotions, more rampant bouts of depression and emptiness.
I’m ready for the spring of my heart.