Moistly Nothing

Published

Somewhere along the way, I became afraid. I was afraid to speak up, I was afraid of change, I was afraid to make a peep.

I survived the best way I knew how; to be meek, be funny, keep the peace, and run far and fast when the shit hit the fan.

I did a lot of running. Both physically and metaphorically. And I'm tired.

My left knee is tender, and it can't handle the pounding of the pavement. Emotionally, I'm drained.

The fact is that I've done things I regret that I wish I could change. I can't. I own my decisions. I made them because I wanted to survive. It wasn't a life-or-death thing, you see. No.

I needed to survive the unknown; I needed to survive not being safe; I needed to survive what if.

My life has been a constant negotiation of holding on, running away, hiding, opening up, and allowing myself uncertainty.

I can point fingers; I can say it was always like this. And you know what? I wouldn't be wrong, but I wouldn't be much closer to where I need to be.

I know that I'm responsible for myself; I'm responsible for my decisions, all of the good and all of the bad that come with them.

Standing still and eating shit isn't a fun thing to do. But it's been a necessary practice and a humbling one at that.

What I have done to heal and to better myself is between me, my therapist, and the hole I've dug for myself. No one wants to hear about these things.

This isn't me asking for your sympathy or consideration—I'm not martyring myself. Although, this is me asking for a gold fucking star that will never come.

I think I've done enough running. I think I've done enough ragging on myself.

I think I'm done with all that has been and ready to tackle what is and what is to be.

If you know me and you're reading this, thank you. I'm sorry. Feel free to say “hi” I'd appreciate it.

If you're coasting through life, you're going downhill. — A very smart friend, MM.

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