Saturday night spirals are my new Sunday scaries.
I stay up too late looking at memories of the life I used to have. The life I wonder if I will ever find again. Sometimes, the night ends with hot tears stinging my eyes. And sometimes, those tears manage to escape, despite my best attempts to stop them. Despite my best attempts to hold them all in.
Sometimes, I just stare at myself in the mirror, and I wonder, “why?” Why am I like this?
I carry the weight of all of my problems directly on my shoulders. Sometimes, it feels like my bones are bricks, and I’m just sitting there as they crumble under my weight. I often spend my nights scrutinizing every part of me. I take photos of my stomach to remind myself to do better tomorrow. I pull at the softness of my belly and wonder why the fat couldn’t have just settled at my breasts instead. Some nights, I take photos, and they make me feel better. And other nights, they only make me feel worse. I often wonder if it can get any worse.
And I know it will only continue to do so.
After all, a spiral is a continuous motion. Do any of us really know where it stops or ends? Or do we all just get lost somewhere along the way?
Somewhere in the middle, I lost myself. Or at least, who I thought I was. Some days are good. Some nights are bad. Some days it reverses.
When will it ever stop spiraling? Maybe it is never meant to. Maybe we are supposed to catapult between heaven and hell, and it is only when we stop that we know we are done.
Maybe life happens on the way to our nightmares and during them, too. Maybe everything that breaks us does actually make us stronger. More resilient. More ready to accept the impending doom of a life constantly in motion.
Maybe we are meant to always be teetering on the edge. Gripping our dreams, while our nightmares pull at our feet. Maybe this is living.
And the rest?
It’s just our dreams.