Staring at the page. I’ve been staring at the page a lot these days. Pretty much, that’s what I do — stare at the page. I don’t know where the heck the words are, but they certainly aren’t making it here.
I’m stifled. Caged. Trapped. Paralyzed by life and the fears within. It’s beyond frustrating. It’s infuriating. Maddening. And sad — so sad.
I feel stuck in the past — like my life is on instant replay. Different players but always the same game. I’m so tired of this game. So, so very tired.
What is going on in my head that I can’t seem to get myself out of this rut of insanity? No tunnel. No light. Just four stark black walls closing in on me tighter and tighter every day of my life. So tightly I can almost feel them against my flesh, pressing with such force that I can hardly breathe a full breath. I’m dying inside this box.
This box is the incarnation of my anxiety and depression. These walls are marred with countless attempts to escape: dents and scratches. They are just dents and scratches — no cracks. It’s never been cracked — it can never be cracked. I’m running out of fight. There is little resistance left. The walls keep pushing inward.
Here I am — in the center of this box. Knees pulled up to my chest, arms wrapped around them with my head bowed atop. The walls are squeezing the life out of me. They are stronger than I am. I accept that truth.
So I’ve been staring at the page. Occasionally feeling the hot saltiness of tears rolling down my cheeks, yet unable to find the words. Where are the words?
Outside the box.