I’m one missed snack away from a panic attack. I get like this when I’m in between things. In between men. In between endeavors. The notion of just being me. Of that being enough. Is preposterous enough to send me tumbling into a feeling in the pit of my stomach like one too many cups of coffee. I want to pass out or run a marathon. Well, maybe not a marathon. More like a reasonably paced 5k.
I walked out of the gym the other day after a workout. I had literally run away from my anxiety. I was too tired to be afraid. Or to construct some elaborate narrative landing me in the role of failure. Fuck. My life would be so much simpler if I just let things be. If I realized this thing I’m so desperate to be on the other side of is only temporary. To just show up and live my life and stop apologizing by way of anxiety for the gifts I’ve been given and the things I don’t know.
What will I have space for if I stop trying to be the person I think I should be and am simply the person I currently am? If I try and be the fullest version of HER. Not future her. Not first date her. But six months in her, where shit gets real and interesting, her.
I implode in the in between times because me is all I have to anchor myself to. I can’t look at some wonderful (or not wonderful) man to verify I’m sexy and deserving of attention and love. I can’t look at tangible pieces of my work to say that I’m doing what I’m supposed to be doing. I have to do the incredibly uncomfortable thing of trusting myself. And not just myself, my totally imperfect and in process self. But I repeat. Fuck. How glorious life would be if I trusted her. Not future her. Not perfect her. Just her. The things we could do.
The things we will do.