…In another part of my racing mind are the thoughts of writing this book, putting down in words what the world is like for me, through my eyes, so maybe this misunderstood woman might have a voice.
The years of trying to prove my goodness and my ability have exhausted me, I feel old beyond my years. Things that once energized me, even the thought of them, almost bring me to tears. My body can’t keep up with the simple tasks, let alone facilitate the ever enticing screenshot of me running away from this world and this life, off into the sunset, just like Forrest Gump.
So far a pretty negative picture, honestly, I wish it was just a hook to get you to feel sorry for me, but here’s the thing, this is my reality. Most would argue that I am not good judge of things that constitute reality, but I am the only one that sees outside of these eyeballs, the shit brown ones, the ones that I have been looking out of for the last 39 ½ years, the only lens I stand behind. I have fought so hard to make what I see, hear, feel and believe fit into others interpretations of them. It doesn’t work. I still finding myself fighting, so I guess there is something to that.
I think that people will eventually give up when they have argued too long about something that they don’t really believe or believe in. That makes me think that I really believe in some part of myself because I still haven’t stopped. The argument still makes sense. The way that I feel my life still makes sense, maybe only to me, but shouldn’t that be enough?
Now, I’m not arguing that it all feels right or comfortable or even sane, but it is all that I know, it’s the only way that I’ve felt. Sometimes I think I am aspiring to something that I don’t even know how to feel, that I have never tasted, something that I have no inkling of insight into. That has made it hard to know where to start, where to stop, and what the journey actually holds.