It’s a cliche, but the journey is different for everyone.
My grad program was designed to take four years to complete - three years of coursework, and a year to write the dissertation. Bing, bam, boom, you’re done. Out of my cohort of nine, it happened that way for … exactly one person.
I find that anger flares in me at intervals I can’t time.
I bite at a bit I don’t know how to remove.
I lost track of the last tie I didn’t sedate myself and I wonder how long much time I have spent in this place where I purposely resist.
Keep myself from truly hitting that floor.
I learned to tuck and roll far earlier than I ever learned to stand. I’ve been moving forward ever since.
Learned that sometimes it is easier to simply let go than risk hanging on.
It always sounds so much better when you speak it out loud. As if the words, placed in order, in sentences, in a timeline let you know that the story ended long ago. We’re moving on toward some fairy tale ending. The past is behind you.
I know I’m in a much different place than where this all started. But knowing is something entirely different than being.
I still haven’t let myself fall. I haven’t landed.
That rug can always be swept up from under you.
Each missed phone call is an invitation to your funeral.
I’m still holding my breath because if I exhale I don’t know what will be left.
I might scream. I might yell.
I might not be in control.
I might be real. There. Present. Available.
I might fall.