An apology is inadequate,
because an adequate apology
has yet to be invented.
It’s
a sad truth realizing what you had known for a very long time, and allowing
yourself to not just take a chance and move on to help yourself. Because, you had found a moment in your life
where everything seemed to be going alright.
But, you know that you love to write but that you can’t quiet your mind
enough, many times to sit down and write, you knew that hyperactivity was
there, and that your mind went to a billion places all at once, and you knew
there were things that could help that, but dammit you figured, I’m an adult I
can control my own brain. And sometimes
you could but then the depression would hit, and suddenly, what you knew so
sure you could control is unmanageable.
Feelings of inadequacy seep into your blood, and you don’t want to confront
your weaknesses, because for a minute there they are maximized, and
magnified. It’s then that people who
you trust, and can be strong for are subject to your weaknesses. Then the pain starts. You want to talk it through, figure it out,
kiss the wound, bandage it up. Now one
problem has piled on to another, and as much as your mind wants to move on it
is dragged back as if by rubber bands, that are still latched on to that moment
of pain. So you attempt to move on
despite that resistance, because you know you are stronger than that. All the while, like all the other whiles
throughout your life you know that there are people to talk to, medications to
prescribe, but you can handle this. You
know that just months ago you were in ownership of your life, but that was
before your mind was in ownership of you.
That’s when the irritation and the anger start to seep in, and the
rubber bands still hold on tight, demanding an apology but you are adding more
bands as you run your laps. Hyperactively
you react, wishing you could control your tongue, tripping up over its folds
and landing flat on your face, but tripping up the other in the process. You know you don’t truly feel that way, deep
inside you know you are okay. You lost
some of your stability, your inadequacy increases tenfold, but you can’t say
all of it out loud, because its your mind and you can control your own
mind. You say these things to yourself
knowing full well that there are people who can’t control their own minds, not
all the time, and a depressed anxious mind in a whirlwind of hyperactivity is a
mind that is just at war with itself.
You attempt to focus tighter, but there’s so many things that you have
to apologize for and make up for and you’re going to get it together, and
instead of pacing yourself like you know you can do you let it run rampant, the
thoughts on the march against your will, and the resistance to them is barely
even there, when it should have been a great wall, with a manageable gate. It’s hard to focus on the everyday by then
as the pull of the rubber bands makes you dig your legs into the dirt, and you
want to work on just being, and just being there, and being present, but you
feel you need to make it up, solve the problem, talk it out, reason things, but
your mind is in no place for reasoning.
And you make promises, but maybe you won’t be able to keep them, but you
sure as hell mean them. All the while
help is whispering right around the corner, but that would be more money, that
would take more time, and you don’t feel you have those right now, but you can
get a hold of it if you just quiet your mind.
Then a string of storming thoughts, chasing the line back and forth like
a fish on the hook, working on solutions from point A to point C, vocalizing
what you think it could be that’s affecting you and thinking if you share it
out loud its going to help the other know how to handle you. but you know its foolish, and then a moment
of clarity you think you found. A good
feeling, a phone call, and a clusterfuck, and you are on fire. Consumed with a hellfire that burns your
throat and you need to put it out, so you accept it. And you suck it up, through that irrational
fear and you setup an appointment to get a grip on yourself, and you know its
in your head. It was just piling on, and
it wasn’t fair to the other, and then well, life can’t wait for you to get your
shit together, life is moving, life is constantly in motion. Then the gunshot, the last barbs of emotional
hurt spewed up out of your visceral gut of pain, its acidic and it has left its
burns, but you hope eventually there will just be scars left. So, you made it there, dead in the dirt,
groaning against your own stupidity, and knowing you could have fixed yourself,
and admitting that you should have fixed yourself a long time ago. Then you have an appointment, so someone
drags you up, to the door and you sit, and you are told what you already
know. Depression, hyperactivity, knowing
the answers and still not being able to grasp them, and suddenly you’ve found
it, a way to get rid of that problem.
Too little, too late, you guess, for now, but it wasn’t just the other
that was affected but your own self-worth, and your own self-loathing, knowing
that you did have a handle on things and you knew the answers but you needed
this. So, there’s a bit of feeling
better, because you know your academics, occupation, activities have needed
this holding hand, but the other is burned by you, and the other is burned by
you and people can stay on fire only so long.
An apology is inadequate
because an adequate apology
has yet to be invented…
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