"Miss Martha, you are so weird!" "I know . . . isn't it wonderful!?"

It’s been a LONG road, and it’s not over yet.  I am enhausted.

 

Physically.

 

Mentally.

 

Emotionally.

 

Yet . . .

 

I refuse to give up.

 

I am stronger than this.

 

But it is strong.

 

I’ve been making the mistake of using denial and sheer stubborness  as my only coping mechanisms.

 

Those, and humor.

 

But lately, it’s not funny anymore.

 

I’m not ready to laugh about this just yet.  Right now, it’s not funny.  It will be again . . . but for now, it’s not, and I must take it seriously.

 

I’ve been making choices (on EVERY level) that will do nothing to make me better, or help me cope.  This *may* be as good as it gets . . . but that doesn’t mean I have to lie down and take it.

 

I am more than this.  I am more than all of this.

 

But I am small.  I am a speck, a mote, an ort in the universe.

 

Yet my expectations of myself are far greater than anything that I would ever put on anyone else.  I would not place a FRACTION of this on anyone else, yet, in my own eyes, I am a failure.  I am a disappointment.  In my eyes and no others.  Moi et nul autre.  Ca, c’est tout.  Pour quoi?  Je ne sais pas.

 

I have created, for myself, such a level of stress.  Of course I can’t relax.  If I relax, I must be doing something wrong.  I must have forgotten to do something.  I MUST smile at all times, though my body may be screaming and my life feels like it’s falling apart.

 

Make the face that shows how you feel right now.  Don’t smile.  Make the face.  Hold it.   Hold it.  Keep holding it.

 

A single tear falls.

 

And there it is.

 

That is truth.

 

That is honest.

 

That is real.

 

This is real.

 

My facade cracks.  My smile disappears.  And . . . for the first time . . . in weeks?  Months?  Years? . . .

 

My shoulders relax.

 

My jaw unclenches.

 

How much energy do I spend pretending to be fine?  How many hours of the day do I subconciously waste worrying that other people view me as I view myself?  It is EXHAUSTING to be me.

 

Exhausting because I want YOU to see me as I WISH I saw myself.

 

Inside, I’m overwhelmed.  Inside, it’s too much.  Inside, it’s not funny.  Inside, I’m banging my fists against the wall screaming about how unfair it is.

 

Yet, I *know* I’m lucky.

 

That doesn’t make it hurt any less.

 

I wish it did.

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