Thine Own Sunshine

Sometimes I grow weary of my own happiness.
Things go up and up and up...

...instead of waiting for them to fall by themselves I anticipate it much too much.

I thrust myself upon the earth, giving myself relief from the anxiety.



I am unhappy again.

It is true.

But it is of my own hand that I find my misfortune.

It is the destruction that I find so appealing.
The reconstruction that gives me my high.
I tear things apart to put them back together.

I scatter my belongings across the floor to pick them back up.

I rip seams with my teeth and pick threads until my fingers bleed,

just to manipulate the fabric into something new.

I get to tell myself after I have suffered,

"Look at what you have done! You made yourself the most amazing knot and you have managed to untie it all on your own!"

It is disgusting, but it is my nature.

So what do I do when things are perfectly fine as they are?
I enjoy it of course!

...and then I don't.

and then I try to....

...and then I itch.

Because surely this joy cannot last?
Surely there is a being more powerful than I at work,
plotting against whatever happiness I have managed to stumble upon?

Surely I am not worthy of this glee, this content, that I cannot have worked hard enough for it enough to truly be mine?

Some may say these are the thought of a martyr, and on some days I may agree.

But until you have walked in all of the pairs of shoe I  own, surely you cannot tell me my instincts are invalid?

You cannot tell a girl who has lost so much to not expect more loss.
You cannot tell a girl who has had a shattered heart not to treat it with caution.
You cannot tell a girl who has made mistakes that she will not make mistakes again.

You cannot tell a girl who is weeping she has not the right to weep.

I had not weeped for such a long period I had thought myself free if it.
I thought I had evolved from such childish behavior.
And yet I am scratching that itch once more.

I find my mind colored with over saturation. I have shined a light onto the thoughts that belonged in the blackness. I have uncovered fossils of ideas and beliefs that have long been extinct.

I wanted an escape and yet I crawled into a smaller cage.
One that only had enough room for my insecurities and I.
I found myself humming my favorite Scarlet excerpt,

"Thou must gather thine own sunshine. I have none to give thee!"

But I kept wishing I had sunshine to give. Surely that is a sign that these are only accidental feelings?
Perhaps this is simply a short relapse, and I will be stronger tomorrow?

As I write these words I feel as if I am spilling my insides onto the screen

the way a poisoned mind would vomit up it's own illness, if you will.

I want to find my peace with all that I have, and all that I have yet to encounter.
It is an adventure I take no pleasure in being a part of.

I have to change. I have to stop. I have to let myself be.

I have to let myself be loved and love back without hesitation.

I have to be OK. I have to LET myself be OK.

That is the only option I have left.