A big, fat, question mark;

I’ve made it my business to know things, my whole life, it’s been what makes me. It makes me sure, opinionated, capable, steady, level-headed, objective. Knowing keeps me safe. I know who I am, and where I want to be. I know useless facts, and obscure how-to’s, that’s the way I like it. I want to be exactly, at least two hops above average in at least 80% of the things on Earth. I don’t care about becoming an expert, I simply want to learn enough, and become skilled enough in any given thing that I will be able to handle anything I encounter in life. I don’t care about listing all the plants, animals and countries, I just want to know the poisonous leaves, the most likely human predators, and the countries I intend on seeing. As New Found Glory would say, “I am an endless source of useless information.” But most of those innocuous details are uncovered in the pursuit of concrete know-how.

I hate these times because I am undone. Everything that has made me seems to be just a hazy white noise somewhere behind my eyeballs. The simplest tasks feel overwhelming, and even though I feel like I am trying harder than I ever have to move 20,000 tons of bricks by myself, in reality, I’m barely existing. Whoever I was, wherever that capable girl went, I couldn’t tell you. I feel frozen in time while the world is double and triple paced around me. I get dizzy walking out my front door. I can’t bring myself to care, about anything. I’m looking at this tornado of a room that I just moved back into, and, well, you know how sometimes chaos can be comforting? but, other times it’s suffocating. It’s neither. I look around and I feel like I am lightyears away from it, and yet I’m sitting on my second mattress amidst a category 5 of clothes, shoes and old water cups. And honestly, all I can think is, “I’m amazed that I’ve drank that much water.”

My body hurts and every day there’s a new ache, but I can’t hear my joints screaming over the pounding in my head, and yet somehow I ignore it, constantly. I’d ignore it until it killed me, if I could but sometimes the pain gets so loud that I scream silently into the atmosphere. Sometimes I want to cry, and I couldn’t tell you if it’s from a physical pain that I’ve been ignoring or if my heart is finally bleeding through the tightly wrapped gauze. I look at nothing, and I think, “how sad.” And just like that I’m begging my eyes to swallow the waterworks, pleading with my brain to be useful. I hate existing around people when I’m like this, but I hate the emptiness and the waste of life I become when I’m not around them. I’m so sick of being this person, or this lack of person. Every time I think I have a handle on things, and that I can handle anything that life throws at me, life drops an anvil on my head. Or a piano. Or a car. Or a bomb. It’s never fun, and it’s never easy and it always hurts like hell.

My biggest fear is that I won’t be able to handle the world, and the worst part about these long periods of falling apart, is that I can’t. I no longer know what to do with the minutes, much less my hair, or your polite small talk. When I was young, I wanted to start a blog, it took me ages to find a name that I could get behind, and what I finally chose was,”the unknown.” Because that’s all life really is, right? A big, fat, question mark. None of us knows what’s going on in the world, I sure as hell don’t. It takes a lot of effort to exist, and I don’t know what’s next. I’m not going to say it can’t get worse, because every time I do, life makes a point of proving me wrong. But I hope it gets better.


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