Where do I fit?
Where do I fit? What is my purpose in life? Why did I go to Ivy League schools to end up here? Why am I here? I still don’t have good answers for any of these questions. Many think I am lucky and even thriving, but why don’t I agree?
I miss them both. Someone got away with murder; deep down I know the car should have hit me instead of my brother. I thought I had the whole summer to be with him.
My life seems senseless. I have never been able to count on anything. The moment I do, the rug is pulled from under me. It is not fun to live most of your life on the ground. This time, I don’t want to get up. What’s the point?
When did I stop caring or stop fighting? When did I stop believing in others? Why am I so angry at myself?
I have two beautiful boys who taught me the meaning of unconditional love, something I did not experience growing up. I wish I could return to those days of aiming for the stars and contorting myself to please others. I want my children to have the happiness I never had. If all my disappointments result in their wellbeing, then my life on the ground will be worth it, and I will accept a life without a future. I may even get up knowing I’ll be knocked down again.
My amateur poem “The Irony of Life” was written over 13 years ago when I was an optimist; now, I am a realist who no longer wants to fight. Am I fading away or just getting older and depressed at the thought of growing old alone?
I am losing my passion for life and the company of others. I genuinely don’t care what people think of me. Ironically, this is a liberating feeling, and I do love myself. I guess there is still hope for me.
Although I still don’t know where I fit, this was a therapeutic post.
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Originally published at failuretolisten.com on January 19, 2013.
