I’m not good at feeling. I’m good at doing. Put a task in front of me and I’m there with my organizer, lists, priorities, purpose and determination. This I can do. Eventually I will stop, evaluate my performance, re-focus and push on. One task at a time. Hoping I’m useful, yearning to be valuable.
That’s how I live. That’s how I’ve survived. My feelings? I only address them when necessary and only when the environment seems safe.
They frighten me. Their depth, intensity and ability to consume me force me to keep them on a short leash.
They’ve ended me up in a psych ward, staring at the sharp edge of razors. Destruction has been the only thing I’ve found at the end of their romp with my reality.
I don’t know what to do with them. Given the chance they would dominate me and destroy me. Given the opportunity, they are stronger than I am.
Because I don’t know what to do with them. Believe me, I’m smart enough to know that. Just apparently not smart enough to figure it out.
So, what do I do when every step is deliberate, every word must be carefully weighed and the sharp edges of my soul are slicing through my rib cage? I don’t understand being fragile and tangibly broken. I’m terrible at it.
So, I stay quiet. Waiting for the next time I can breathe evenly again. Hoping tomorrow will be the day I can brush myself off, straighten my lists and limp away.
Just don’t get too close to me. It’s taking all the strength I possess to breathe.