Some days I struggle. I struggle with a multitude of things, from having patience for my father to missing my mother. I struggle to find passion and purpose, something that makes my soul spark with life.
The couch curls around me on these days, warm, uncomfortable and consuming. It becomes part of me. Solid. Unmoving. Cumbersome.
Nothing moves but my mind, which takes every detour and back road with potholes of regret and misfortune.
My mind notices my teeth, shifting I’m sure for the first time. The oil on face that will probably turn to pimples. The fat that sits around my stomach, no matter the miles I run or the broccoli I eat. My eyes that are filled with water, pouring from some inner pool of disgrace for never finding my thing.
I had plans of finding my thing, my passion, my joy. Something just for me. Something that would give me a reason to enjoy now and look forward with happiness. Something. Anything.
I struggle. I have no spark today. This life, this life with mental health issues– looking healthy and strong and relatively normal–is not what I saw for my future. None of this really is.
But today is worse. Harder. My chest is heavy. Tears spill over. Tomorrow I’ll be someone different. Maybe tomorrow I’ll find a spark.