What manages to chip away at me a thousand times over is not the pool of misery I seem to wade through on a daily basis; a pool that consists of every self-hating, self-diminishing and self-effacing thought that I have ever had in my life. No, what kills me is that I dreamed big. I took into account the crippling depression I knew I would experience (had been experiencing at that), and despite knowing how bad it can get, I dreamed big. Almost daring my mental illness to do the same; daring it to go big.
In the wake of everything I have felt in the last few months, I find that dream has dissolved somehow in the ether of my mind, and I am chasing the memory of it. I am not at all certain if I still want those things I said I did before this journey. I am not at all certain that I want anything at all anymore. This, more than anything I have done in the recent past, makes me feel so completely defeated. This goal, this life plan, this dream, this desire; it existed, it was tangible, and most importantly, I wanted it. I wanted it so badly, I was willing to put up with my mental illness to get it. I was willing to put up with the worst of me to get what was tantamount to freedom in my mind, tantamount to flight and liberation. Tantamount to happiness. It had never occurred to me that I had not even experienced the worst of me. What if I still haven’t..?
Without the drive, I just feel like I am wandering around in the dark, crashing into unchecked emotions from both sides of the coin, waiting for a spark to just finally appear. This dream was taken out of my hands when I blinked, replaced by a ghost of it. The loss seems absolute. The hope of that spark kills – another big dream; a dream of a dream. Worst of all, I forget myself trying to chase it. My heart is broken because I had a reason for everything, and now it is gone.