The Wind

Maybe I am like a cloud – heavy and saturated, waiting to let go and rain upon something.  A cloud that meets other clouds, pushed by the wind to grow bigger until the weight pulls it down to land on everything it hovers.  

I am not like the wind anymore - sure and strong for the beauty it possesses, everything and nothing all at once.

I never want to disappoint you.  I spend time inside myself, pushing back the bad and growing heavier with each passing year.  Holding in all the good for fear of it not being enough for anyone. Tense and worn, tight muscles and active cells fighting to survive, to get over some random fear of ill health or disease, frightening but real.

I can’t do it anymore. I can’t hide inside myself, waiting for the day when the winds will blow it all away, waiting for the day when I will collide with hope or faith and my fear of disappointing anyone will be abated, obliterated, non-existent.

I take deep breaths to calm my heartbeat – to empty my lungs so I can hear if it’s irregular, if I am going to die of a heart attack or a stroke, or if my demise is simply suffering  like this until my physical body just gives up, like an old horse.  Take care of your wellness before your illness forces you to do it.  Something like that keeps going through my head.  Take care of yourself.

The mind does strange things. It confuses things and makes you think that laying on the sofa, drinking or eating, and mindlessly playing games is comforting.  It makes you feel as though the less ambitious your body is, the safer you are.  But it’s essentially killing the you that you’re trying to keep safe.  So, what is the choice?  Exert the effort despite the fear of disappointing anyone.  I see that as the solution.

What have I been doing lately?  Holding back on my intuition, my wants, my desires, the truth that taking care of myself physically will allow me to take care of myself mentally.  It’s not the other way around! 

Or maybe it is.  

I don’t know.

I do know. 

Sleeping well helps, eating healthy foods helps, walking helps, lifting weights and sweating helps, painting the walls of every fucking room helps, listening to music and dancing helps, laughing helps – all these beautiful things help.  How is sitting on the sofa, growing larger a benefit in any way?  What am I trying to protect by doing it?  Protect the predictability of status quo? Protect the little voice that says, “but this time you might do something that isn’t good enough; you might not get the approval of every important person in your life; you might lose their love, and wouldn’t that be a shame?”

That voice that plays at being my best friend when it’s simply scared.  I thought I banished the negative insults that came with it – I screamed and yelled and told that voice never to return.  It's been hidden, only coming out at night when I’m asleep, or lurking in my head when it comes to decide what I should do with my evening… “just relax, you deserve it, so what you’re getting bigger, you can take care of it tomorrow… and tomorrow… and tomorrow…”. Every day I look forward until tomorrow. Another day without disappointing anyone passes and I’m happy. 

But I’m not. 

I’m just growing heavier and heavier until one day my entirety will fall freely into the ruts, the mud, the puddles, the unknown and all I'll be left with is the wind to push what’s left of me into something else.