I have a story to tell you

but I don’t know where to start.

All stories have a beginning, but the really good parts are in the middle. I don’t want to relive all the mundane bits, but I have to get it all out to prove to myself it really happened. I disassociate from my story, and it leaves me feeling hollow every day. I suppose I start with a rough shape and then fill in the lines? There will be doodles in the margins, and sudden deviations into completely unrelated notebooks.

Oh… I get it now.

I have to start.

Oh, hmm, I’ve now realized that I don’t know if I have to get some sort of legal affidavits or waivers from my siblings?

What if I just change names? Would it offend them if I don’t ask? Would it offend them if I do? Why am I so worried about offending them?

Do they worry about offending me?

Do they worry about me?

Do they worry?

All I do is worry, I am worn and weary from unrelenting fears. Hard edges worn smooth over the pounding years. I’m so tired, all the time. Tired of worry. Tired of shame. Tired of waking to the same old game. I used to clutch my phone, desperate for a call. Now, I don’t think much of you at all. I have to live, and I’m trying. It feels like I’m not living, I’m dying. It’s a weight I wished I’d never picked up from the side of the road, I didn’t stop to ask questions, I squared up under the load. It is the weight of discomfort, writhing under the skin. Trying to will your existence off the bones that keep you bound within.

It’s not my weight to carry.

Dust fills the scorched air, stinging my squinted eyes.
I roll my neck, breathing into the knots. A cool breeze sings along my face, and I turn my ears to listen.

It’s not my weight to carry.

I leave it behind, my gift to the weeds.
I wonder if my posture will improve.
I sit up, and raise my desk to stand.
Like all things, it’ll get better if I try.
If I’m not trying, then I’m dying.

I’m done dying, but don’t know how to live.
I’ll do my best, and all I have to give.

Worst case, I tried.

Best case?
I’m living it.