For ten long days I have woken up after two or three hours of interrupted sleep, not being able to eat breakfast or lunch, or finish my dinner. I’ve paced up and down the floor of my living room slash kitchen with worry in my stomach and a heavy heart. I’ve nervously kept my mind busy, watching the clock, hoping that at some point I’ll wake up and it will have all been a bad dream.
My mind has scoured every detail of the last three years, perplexed as to what I could have done to deserve this. I know I have flaws, big ones, but was I really that burdensome? Did I really make it that hard to love me?
I’d like to think that I’ve done a lot of growing up. Especially where my anxiety is concerned, having to also deal with an illness that makes my body hurt every day. I’ve formed solid friendships, built a business up from scratch, done things in my life that my old anxious brain would never have thought possible. Yet every time I think about the rejection and the harsh words that have been said, I shrink back in to my former self, like a a bullied teenager who lacks tenderness.
I overthink everything. Was it all my fault? Will I always make people feel this way? Will I ever stop feeling guilty for wanting to flourish?
And then, I remind myself that this is just a big part of life. These moments that define who we become are simply meant to be, and even though this time it didn’t work out, it doesn’t mean that I don’t deserve it to work out for me someday. It’s just not right now.
I’ll keep going, moving forward for myself, taking care of myself and one day hope to find the kind of love that helps me find my true being. The kind of love that makes it easy to forget that I’m just one solitary person. A friend who’s words and aspirations bind to mine and lead us down the same star adorned path. Someone who never makes me doubt if I’m enough, or where I stand.
