Sunset

Lately, I feel something. Self loathing I think. Like this season has pulled into exposure the way I talk and think: I hate the way I sometimes say the wrong thing and I can’t listen well. I hate how I can’t make myself work harder. What words am I supposed to say out loud? Do I just regurgitate information? Is the sole perspective I bring to every philosophical question it depends? I made a space, I drilled holes in the wall, I hung some shelves, I can’t stop moving, cleaning.

I question. Is it COVID, is it the 20s, is it to-be-expected mental health tides, is it my mood disorder, or is it just how I am in a relationship?

And I’m afraid of what I’ve faced before, the dark times when I sprint into the wall doing all the things. The therapies, the self care, the meds and the supplements - but they aren’t enough to make it better, to make me better. Will the panic attacks come back, the menacing, ever-present stomach sparkles of anxiety? Will I hate myself again? I am terrified of the dark.

How much of humaning is not solving, but feeling? How much will it hurt?