Pic by: Tsoku Maela
You spent ages 21-31 trying. Trying so hard to be something. Someone. Ten years to finally let go of the anger you felt, overcompensating for the imperfections of a sibling. Ten years of flip flopping. Of here and there. Of crying. Of the blood, sweat and years. Of changing your mind. Of breaking down walls.
Trying so hard to make something of yourself. To make something stick. And everytime you think you’ve finally got it right, returning back to square one.
Ten years to realise that time is in fact cyclic and not linear.
Ten years of please love me, Why don’t you love me? Why am I not enough? Twenty years to realise that all that time you spent alone was training for the kind of life you would have to live.
Ten years of sunshine and rain. And storms and sunshine as rain. And storms and sunshine and sunshine. And storms and sunshine.
Ten years of watching people being applauded for breathing. While you move mountains in silence. So their journey can be easier.
Ten years of being everything to everybody and too tired to be your own best friend.
Ten years of trying to forgive yourself for not being a carbon copy of your parents. Of no longer apologising for who you are. Of rising above the “black sheep” label.
Ten years and counting of working on your spirituality. So that this shit won’t matter anymore. So that the urge to slit your wrists may finally go away.
Only to be diagnosed with anxiety and depression.