Photo by Peter Leong on Unsplash
July 3, 2019
I wake up, and before I open my eyes I realize I’m in the spare room in my mother’s house. In Centralia. How did I get here? I don’t want this life! This is not the life I want!
Then I cry for a while, like a spoiled, selfish, whimpering child, feeling like a victim. Sobbing for lack of the life I thought I would have, I thought I deserved.
Then I think back to when I moved to Louisville. How many times did I wake and do the same damn thing? Just lie in bed, crying, and wonder how in the hell I got to Hell.
It seems, this moment, when I’m languishing in the dark part of my mind, the most dangerous part, I’ve always felt like I’m moving from one hell to another. Into a relationship. Hell. Out of the relationship. Hell. The best job opportunity I could imagine. Hell. The subsequent next best job opportunity. Hell. Seattle. Hell. Honolulu. Hell. Louisville. Hell. Centralia. Hell.
So I must ask this question. Why am I stuck in Hell?