My relationship with the future has shifted away from dread. A combination of work, anti-anxiety meds, therapy and sheer boredom have moved me on from constant, draining, low-level panic about all things yet to come – macro (life) and micro (party).
I now live in a kind of neutral gear; no longer doom-laden but nonetheless not exactly excited. How do I feel about the impending? Impartial. Because what kind of person dares to hope? I cling on to a kind of unfocussed faith that it will all be alright in the end. That if it’s not alright, it’s not the end. But hope? Optimism? It just doesn’t seem possible.
I am simply too vulnerable to knowingly open myself up to the possibility of disappointment if I can avoid it. My heart shatters in small ways hourly. Why would I invite distress in? Roll out a red carpet for pain? I am not woman enough. Or I am woman too much.
Obviously this sucks some of the joy out. While others clap their hands in glee, I pretend the potentially great thing isn’t on the table. Because then, when the table collapses, I’ll manage. I am simply too cowardly to hope.
BUT having evolved out of dread I aim to grow towards hope. Because, I assume, that is key to enjoying the journey. And if I could stop punishing myself for waiting for life to begin then… that would help. Because, apparently, this is it. Might as well seek the sunshine while I’m here. Clouds will come. I’ll cope.