I like beginnings. I like endings. It’s the middle I can’t handle.
The middle is where reality sets in. It’s where novelty decays into routine, where daydreams morph into responsibility. It’s just living, and like Rilo Kiley says, living is the problem for me.
So I force everything around me to end. I create pockets of chaos, where I feel most at home. I leap from “what could be” to “what could have been” because fantasy is where I belong.
I’m switching from a full-time schedule to part-time. Partly because I know I really need to start seeing a therapist again, and I can’t work weekly sessions into a full-time schedule. Partly because I can’t seem to handle a regular routine. It makes me feel both dead and frightened, somehow. Like anxiety is the only emotion that can resonate.
My father is worried that I’m coasting through life. That is certainly what I’m trying to do. I know it’s weak and pathetic. I know. That doesn’t mean I can change it.
I still can’t find the key, the magic code that will let me function in this world. I’m so close to giving up. I belong in untenable situations. I can’t see a way out of them.