It was the best of times. It was the worst of times. I was inching my way towards the reality of what I had become. The reality of my mortality, and the choices that lead me there.
Today. Today is May 3, 2021. It’s 7:54PM. In less than two weeks, I will be FOURTY THREE. I can look back on the years. Despite all promises and advice to keep moving forward. I always look back.
I have let myself become a slave of my past. In hopes of understanding, accountability, acceptance, and culpability, I only created more issues in how to deal with things and overcome them. I resented it. The self loathing and difficulties arising directly from my unhealthy coping mechanisms make a path straight to addiction impossible to ignore.
Now, better late than never, I push off from here. It has been one year, eight months, fourteen hours, 18….19 seconds and the rest of my life since my recovery from myself began.
I am a 43 year old child. I am a 43 year old that is terminal.
We are all terminal, they say.
Before you run, you must learn to walk, they say.
You don’t have to do it all at once, they say.
We are not our mistakes, they say.
I am a middle aged, over weight, financially dependent woman who still doesn’t know what she wants to be when she grows up.
I know what I don’t want.
I don’t want to walk the fine line.
I don’t want to approach the slippery slope.
I want to live.
The biggest lie we are ever told is there is time.
Both feet on the ground, head up, tits up, proudly and cautiously MOVE FORWARD.
“If you do not change direction, you may end up where you are heading.”