There is a feeling in the pit of my stomach that makes me want to give up. This feeling, it asks me to give up. It wraps its bony hand around my throat and stops me from breathing any cries for help.
I tell myself that I’m a strong person. People don’t want to hear about my problems, and I don’t want to share them. Head held high, I truck on. For a while, I feel composed and under control. That is only because this feeling is slow. So slow. Like a constrictor devouring it’s prey, this feeling enters my chest. No one can diminish it because I’m not even sure what it is.
Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see hope chained to the wall just out of reach. It’s calling to me! Begging me to move forward, to accept help, to wander into unknown places and believe the best is yet to come. I want to have hope. Extending my hand, I reach out to this almost unattainable expression. Fingers graze against fingers before I am yanked back to my new reality.
Right when I think I can let my inhibitions go, that feeling creeps back in. Suddenly, I’m back to holding back. Don’t look at me. I’m fine.
It’s like biking uphill and waiting for the downhill to begin. It’s filling a to do-list and never getting it done. It’s when people know my name, but I wonder if they know more than that. It isn’t hopelessness necessarily. It isn’t depression. That being said, it is always there and it is hard.
Do you know the feeling?