Me

Me

It’s me. Here I am. The one who got pushed under by motherhood, wifehood, careerhood, successhood, showingoffhood, doinghood. The one who snapped. This morning I sat alone in my bed and felt the me-ness, and then the timidity and fragility around that me-ness. Do we paste on all those roles to make our me-ness feel more substantial? Are we not enough in just our me-ness? It’s comfortable here on the page, in this chair, hearing the buzz of others. It’s lonely when you break, when you become a-flutter and afloat. Who are you when you are no longer fierce? When you become soft. Day by day in your softness, needing reassurance, craving reassurance from yourself but you are a bit flipity jipity to reassure right now, but you’ll get there they say, you’ll get there. Be kind to yourself, be compassionate, take your time. It’s okay just to be still for a little while. Be still in this place. Before, I couldn’t stop doing, moving, going forwards, at breakneck speed. I was chasing a finish line I couldn’t find. I guess anxiety was my energy, hidden under a pill, under the energetic pulse of sertraline. Now my anxiety is flipity jipity, frayed, not much or a pulse for anything. Now my anger is the loaded gun and beware anyone who gets in its way, though the only person who gets in its way is my husband. I never knew I could be so at the mercy of my own emotions. I never knew it could be not me. I never knew I was not being me. It‘s good to write here in this place, in this space. The soothing voices of others. The relief of not aloneness. It‘s been so lonely this implosion. I breathe, and I connect a bit more with me. We need each other. We cannot be so alone. Why do I let myself be so alone? I don‘t want to be like that anymore. I breath and I sit with me.