What the hell am I doing?
A question I have asked myself repeatedly in my thirty nine years of existence on this finite planet; turning of the golden blue~green. It didn’t matter if the world, filtered through my skewed and repetitious lens, was amicable, the question occupied and moved through the regions of my rotational mind; axis up front, 360.
Drinking heightened pots of charcoal coffee, which, at that point was unbearable to look at, because my exhaustion during my University days led me to drink before my exams; mathematical equations swimming through the recess of my mind at night, sleeping pills, anxiety pills. What the hell am I doing?
After graduation, what the hell was I doing? Working for the narcissist who belittled my leaps and bounds every chance she had, what the hell am I doing? Backroom smokers stabbing each other in the back, while praising the pastor to their face. Leaving my home to pursue a Master’s degree; five long years of struggling with work and study, pretending to be alright while visiting the newfound psychiatrist in secret. What the hell am I doing? Choosing to come home after my body and mind gave out from the stress; I don’t even like being here, what the hell am I doing?
My father’s death.
What the hell was happening?
I have come to believe that there is a curse placed upon my family~ a story I keep rehearsing as I lay in bed, drained and despondent from fighting myself each day. A profound reason I refused to have children; not under this name. My brain no longer holds stories; it re-hashes whatever it is inappropriate at any given moment. The difference between right and wrong clash hour by hour; I am left a sweet portion of myself, regretting so, many, choices; sour turn the faded memories of the care-free.
Those are the stories that keep me chained; tethered to the rope of non-condolence and privy to the testament of vilified interaction. My prayers of confusion, I no longer know if they are being acknowledged~ I must believe that one day, the destructive cycle of my familial generation shall subside, and I can live out something of what they call ‘normal.’
Anna Rozwadowska 2019