Random fact about me #13846
I hate being asked if I’m OK.
Even if I am perfectly fine, the mere act of someone asking that simple little question, results in the immediate formation of a lump in my throat and the sudden, barely controllable urge to burst into tears.
I do not look forward to the day that I never feel sad, or embarrassed, or disappointed, because that is the day that I also won’t feel happiness, or excitement, or hope.
In other words, I’ll be dead.
That’s not to say that I am scared of death (although I can’t state unequivocally that I am not, either). We humans always want just that little bit more time, don’t we? To do, or say the things that we thought we should, because fear is the ultimate instigator of procrastination, and humans are tragically fearful creatures.
We think too much.
I am definitely guilty of that. I let fear stop me from doing a lot of things. I allowed it to condemn me to an entire day holed up in a sunless hotel room, deliberately avoiding the possibilities and interactions that might await me in this city that is both foreign and yet somewhat familiar. Fear has kept me sitting here, languishing in the comfort of my own isolation, not because it is enjoyable, but because it is known to me and therefore I am less wary of it.
I am conscious of this, and yet still here I sit, in silence, containing myself within boundary of my own skull, indulging a perpetual cycle of questioning my worth and weighing that against my worthiness.
Sometimes I just don’t have the strength, nor the will to argue with the more destructive voice.
Sometimes, I need to conserve my energy for another day, and a battle that I may have at least some chance of winning.