Between Johnnie Walker and Bebo Norman, I am feeling anxiety creep up again as an imminent deadline looms nearer. Perhaps it's time to face facts and sign up for therapy instead of mulling in the fermentation of my own addled mind and self-doubt.
On one hand it seems reasonable to doubt, right even, given that life is not about finding myself, or creating myself, despite what Taylor Swift wishes the masses to believe. Deliciously tempting as it is, however much I try to convince myself otherwise, people are not mere shadows in the night, a passing moment in a journey centered on me.
Although on paper, 2015 has been a year of unexpected highs, the year has left me emotionally tired. Drained and stripped bare with flesh tender and raw, from exposed wounds that time only hid but did not heal and suppressed memories, the superficial highs only remind me of locust years, of looking everywhere but where I know I should be looking; doing everything in my power, which adds up to insanity; a headless chicken run-around, getting more and more tangled in the weeds and thorns, the product of my hands.
Despite the choked-up season, the Gardener is still watching; carefully unwinding the weeds that hold branches back and replanting roots that have been dragged down in mire. Panic rises as self-reliance is peeled back every morning yet there is freedom in loosing what should never have taken hold in the first place.