I’m suffocating myself
Everyone, it seems, wants a piece of my time.
Colleagues at work have this and that, children to care for and important meetings and home maintenance disasters and it all seems more important, more urgent, than whatever I have going on, so of course I will do this shift, and this one too.
Friends want to meet, the boyfriend arranges meetings and it’s understood I’ll be there, and of course I want to, because I want to be more open, I want to be there, I don’t want to be this person who stays on the sofa behind closed curtains, binge watching whatever stupid show has grabbed my attention.
Then there’s exercise, I want to do more of it, because my ass is getting huge and I don’t want to be out of breath whenever I climb a flight of stairs. And I want to try out a fun class, I promised myself that at the beginning of the year, it’s part of my goals: get out of my comfort zone, do something new.
It’s a constant, non-stop, drip drip drip of do that, do this, be here, be there. My calendar is full full full of those colorful stickers that I use, no one could tell me I’m not busy, no one could tell me I’m not trying.
And I all want to do is scream. Please, leave me alone. Please, leave me be. Where’s the time for myself? When can I read, when can I write, when can I dream? And when can I, yes, binge-watch whatever dumb show I choose? I want to be better better better, do more more more, and instead of feeling successful, accomplished and satisfied, I feel suffocated. I scramble for solutions, because that’s who I am, that’s what I do: I find solutions. Move this meeting there, go first to this party and then to this other, meet X for lunch and Y for dinner and Z for drinks, of course I can, I mean, it’s been a bit of a hectic week, but I do want to see them, of course I do, and I have a free hour after all…
Free hours in my calendar make me feel guilty. Like I’m not working hard enough, like I’m not trying. Maybe if I don’t go to this party I won’t be invited to the next one. Maybe they’ll talk about me, she never comes anymore, she isn’t really making an effort isn’t she. You can’t count on her, so sad.
And all I want do do is breathe. I know it’s not like that, no one will talk about me behind my back, and I can take the time, it’s mine. Why, then, is it so hard? Why does that breath don’t come to me. Why don’t I let it in?
