It’s uncomfortable thinking I am the only one sometimes. The only one that doesn’t drink. The only one that doesn’t eat shit. The only one that doesn’t like pretending to be cool. The only one that is sick and tired of the show and the parade. The only one that doesn’t feel like they measure up because you can’t help but ask how everybody else’s year was, and all you seem to hear is how much better it was than yours.
It’s uncomfortable shitting on yourself, shoulding on yourself, wishing you were somewhere that you weren’t. It’s uncomfortable laughing off the sexist bullshit commentary coming from drunk peers I only see once a year, because I know I deserve better and should fucking stick up for myself. But I don’t. Because I feel outnumbered. I feel alone. I feel stupid. I feel stuck.
And it’s uncomfortable. It’s uncomfortable to not feel good enough, to not feel good enough to be in the room, to not feel good enough to hold the space you’re standing. It’s uncomfortable to not have anything buffering me from me- no anesthetic, no pollutant, no walls. They’ve all been stripped away- graciously, and purposefully, but they’re gone now. I know too much about what I didn’t know before, and it hurts too much too fast to go back.
So I stay. I stay in this uncomfortable space that I created and I ask what the next thing to do right is and I try my best and I just keep going. I bare my heart and my soul and take a time out and go back out there and try again. I shake my head and I take some deep breaths and I share how I’m really doing with the people that can receive it and on I go.
And then I remember to ask somebody else how they’re doing, and perhaps I open up a bit about how I am, and I am met there and reminded instantly: I am not alone after all.