There is a fraction of me that wonders if I am back to surviving, rather than thriving, and I think that fear might be what’s eating me alive.
To even have this possibility, though, means that I had once reached a point where I was thriving. As a life-long realist (I refuse to use the word “pessimist”), it’s hard for me to wrap my mind around that. Especially when that very same mind has been the source of my agony and self-destruction for many years.
This does not mean that I will not admit it, however.
I can at least pinpoint the time frame to when I began thriving — at least two years ago. I rounded that figurative corner seemingly overnight, and when I realized I was now in a position to finally help myself, I knew I had made it.
It’s for this same reason, though, that I have to question if my lack of thriving is due to just that: this self-manufactured notion that I am no longer in a position to help myself. What if I am my own roadblock to any sort of success (Mind you, my definition spans from waking up on time in the morning to making it onto a bestseller list)?
I can only look back so far and say that, in retrospect, little has changed. The fact is that a lot has changed over the past five months, but maybe I’m starting to get tired of hearing about it.
I know that I dropped a cataclysmic bomb on my entire life at the beginning of the year.
I know that I am now living across the country after having resided in the same place for decades.
I know that I am thousands of miles away from the people who know me best.
I was there for it all, remember? Is it so hard to understand that, despite the calculable impact of everything that has happened, I may be okay—accepting, even—of the consequences?
I’ve spent the past 48 hours or so internally interrogating myself. Aside from my trauma, I don’t know why I believe the outcomes of all my new opportunities and relationships have to end in failure. I am the only one expecting everything to hit a wall. While my past certainly justifies this assumption, the assumption itself isn’t necessarily true. I can’t predict the future, no matter how badly I want to, if only to relieve my anxiety. Creating more anxiety out of speculation, however, feels like boarding a train to mass hysteria that I quite frankly don’t want to take.
