All your life, you were only waiting for this moment to be free.
I am seized with envy. What must it feel like to know your path in life? What is it like to not be hunted by Melancholy? I am haunted by Churchill's black dog. I am a blackbird with a broken wing.
I feel lost.
I don't know what I want. I don't know what I need. Chemicals swirl through my body; briefly lifting me before letting me fall on a sea of glass. Shredding cutting bleeding losing. I am losing.
I am lost.
Since I was a child, I have been stalked by Mental Illness. Depression and anxiety have pursued me for as long as I can remember.
I can stretch out my wings, but I am chained to the Monster. My wings lift me and I want to soar - and I am yanked back down. Trapped.
Lately I have wondered ... everything. Who am I, really? Who might I be if these chains were broken? I don't know myself because I can't know myself. I am part Kestrel; I am part Monster. How can I be all Kestrel?
What am I supposed to do with my life? I cannot find my path. I don't know where to go. I don't know what to be. I don't know why I am going to school; spending money and time to get a little piece of paper that I may not ever use. (Because how can I possibly hold down a job when I can barely lift my head?)
I started taking antidepressants after Sparrow was born. They seemed to help me. But they took away my gift. I used to be a writer. I have always wanted to be a writer. But I can't write since I started a steady chain of Lexapro, Prozac, Wellbutrin, Effexor, Viibryd, Fetzima.
And I have always said: I would rather be a person who can function than a person who can write.
Hawk knew what he wanted his career to be when he was 12 years old. And he's attained it. He's incredible at it. And I hate him (just a very tiny bit) for it. I'm nearly 28 and I can't think of anything I want to do except for write.
But I am blocked all the time.
I... am just lost. It seems like my sunken eyes should've learned to see. But the view from here is as blurry as ever. And I will stumble along, as I always do...wishing I could trust my wings to carry me to where I can be free.
This post brought to you by my horribly slow and painful transition to a new SSRI, by the existential crisis I seem to have at least once a month, and by the unsolved mystery of my health... weirdness. I went to the ER 5 times last month.
I just don't know what to do.