It’s grey out today. Cool, but not cold. A bit windy. There are two glasses of unfinished wine from last night sitting on the coffee table and I’m alone. There’s a pit in my chest, my habitual sadness melted together with a little anxiety. Nothing debilitating, but distracting enough.
When does darkness become a lifestyle? I grew up a little dark and sad with the normal amount of hormonal depression, lightly medicated for periods of time, but never dependent off of it. I have fun, too much fun. And every day isn’t dark, but so many are. A romantic cynic by nature, I always thought I’d grow out of it. Something in my life was supposed to happen that would pull the sadness out and replace it with magic and beauty. I’ve always been hopeful to exit this phase of my life, but each passing year makes it feel a little more permanent.
I don’t think it’s some impossible standard leading to insatiability either. It’s a combination of dreaming big, but reaching small. It’s the constant disappointment for allowing people into my life who value me lower than I value them. It’s seeing the potential in others and having it tear me apart over and over. It’s the overwhelming rush to run away when life doesn’t pan out, but never actually doing it. It’s watching myself shut down, piece by piece, feeling a little less able to shake it off each time. It’s my cycle, the same cycle I’ve always been in, which is kind of the anti-cycle, but repetitive nonetheless.
I know it’s all me—all my choices from daily habits to life altering situations. And each time I tell myself I’ll change and fix it and stop doing the same shit and grow up and be something more. And every time I fail it just becomes that much more overwhelming to try again.
The weight of today is making my knees buckle, but tomorrow I’ll try again. And maybe I’ll fail, but maybe I won’t. I just need to win small battles every day, tiny victories to remind me that’s all this hardship is, an accumulation of choices and outcomes and finding the balance in it all.