Here’s my dirty little secret.
I’m vulnerable. Painfully, depressingly so.
I hate even saying those words out loud, let alone typing them for the internet to see. Though, few are reading these words these days. My close friends and many of you I don’t know as well would argue with me. Sure, I’ve made it through a lot. I’ve got titanium plates to prove it. Here’s the thing, strong and weak are not the same thing as vulnerable and unsure.
I walked across the Chicago river yesterday, sun streaming through the bright fall sky and wept. I couldn’t even stop. I didn’t even try.
I’m honestly loving the work I’m doing with my psychologist. I am. But I’m examining things I never even knew existed and re-evaluating things I was sure were one thing and now I’m sure of NOTHING. He’s right and observes (correctly) that my sarcasm and wit doesn’t equate with what I’m feeling.
I’m so terrified of being invisible, of never mattering to anyone and I thought I’d learned so much from Nice Boy only to feel like I achieved nothing. And it all hurts. It drains my spirit and I find I have little energy for more than one task at a time. I’m never sure of the right action and I’m so sick of feeling like I always take the wrong one that I’m driven to embrace inaction.
I’m starting to think J.D. Salinger was onto something other than literature.