Enough

Warning - this is a little dark and the main reason I’ve struggled with writing for a very long time.

Oh anxiety. Why now?! You have me second guessing every word out of my mouth, and yet rambling like never before. You have me nervous to interact with anyone and everyone, including my husband and children. You make me sound angry but feel scared. You make me wonder if my marriage is in question, if my husband doesn’t want me any more because I’m such a wreck, on such a short fuse and so quick to cry. You make me question the love of my children, if they truly need me, if they would be better without me, if my love isn’t enough for them and they can’t feel it radiating from my pores with every breath I take. You have me shove food into my face I don’t want to eat, certainly don’t need to eat, until I’m aching and miserable and can’t breathe. You make me yearn for silence and dark, my crisp sheets with the curtains drawn. 

I’m trying to claw my way to the surface of this grave my brain has buried me in. I’m trying to find the peace and the joy in the simple tasks I love, the people I love fiercely and wholly, far more than myself. I’m trying to find connection with family on all sides, a sense of home among relatives. Im trying to open to friends and allow them back into my heart although so many have left me behind to wallow. I’m trying to push away my self-placed ache of not belonging, being unnecessary, having no reason except to bring pain to those I love. But when I use my voice in a strong, brief moment I get strange looks, rolled eyes, blatant cold shoulders and it plunges me back into the dark. Texts aren’t returned. Voicemails are ignored. Invitations are sent to all but me. And it’s so hard to believe and be and try when no one wants my effort. 

I am enough. I am enough. I am enough. 

I will repeat this until I believe it.