Lately it has been hard to write. Right now I feel antsy. Restless. A bit irritable. I’m itching to get up and do something. To keep myself busy. To make the most of the weekend. I should do anything, but sit still.  

I tell myself I’ll get to this later. But that is a lie. I won’t. And I’ll blame it on time. There is just not enough of it. I’ll also blame it on all the things I “have” to do. Like I have no free will. Like someone had a bullet to my head.

Relaxation does not come naturally to me.

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I wrote those words four weeks ago. And I told myself exactly what I said I would knowing later would not come. I put the computer down and found a distraction. Well, let’s be honest, I found many.

This is not say there is no truth in my list of reasons for not writing. There isn’t enough time to do it all and I objectively have a lot to do.

About six months ago, my job went from very busy to out of control. I went from having one person working with me to adding three more at the same time. The overall field I work in just keeps growing.

There is so much about my job that appeals to me. It is a field where having questions is a good thing. I am always learning, always challenging myself, always growing.

And what happened six months ago is what I wanted. Maybe not in exactly the way it happened or on the timeline it did, but I wanted more resources and I got them. It feels good. It feels good to get what you want. It feels good to be rewarded. It feels damn good to feel like I am good at something.

But it isn’t all good. I am never done with my work. Ever. There is always more to do than I can get done. I survive off adrenaline…and coffee. There have been many nights where I am working past 2 am, especially since my last post. I push and push and push until I fall asleep or numb myself with food.

I do not just do this with work. I throw everything into what I do. Exercise is another example. I run, but not just for leisure and not just for health. I do it to test myself. To push myself to my limit. I push even when it hurts me. I must get faster. I must go farther. Frankly, I am not even sure I like running. I think I do, but maybe not. I like the release of endorphins. I like the feeling of accomplishment. I like when it is over. When something is achieved. When something is done.

But sometimes (a lot of time) I loathe the expectation of it. The feeling like I have no choice.

But I do have a choice. Every day is a series of choices. And my choices got me here.

I am choosing to stay busy. It is maddening.

Why can’t I slow down? Why can’t I be still?

Maybe because the things I am doing are not all bad. Isn’t it good to exercise? Isn’t it good to work hard and grow professionally? This is likely part of it.  

In some dosage, the things I’m doing feel good.

It feels good to say yes to things.

It feels good to have plans.

It feels good to be needed at work.

It feels good to answer your call.

Until it doesn’t.

Until it becomes an obligation.

Until it becomes a distraction.

What is the threshold of when the good teeters to bad?

What am I really running towards?

Or away from?

Run towards acceptance. Safety. Certainty. Purpose.

Run away from loss. Pain. Uncertainty. Shame.

Is this what it actually boils down to? When I slow down, those pesky feelings and unwanted thoughts creep in. So does that physical feeling. It feels like my stomach is twisting.

Silence is synonymous with pain. And silence can be so fucking loud. I will do anything not to hear it.  

In the silence, you must acknowledge what you cannot hear. The words unspoken from those you lost or those who chose not to stay.

In the silence, you must acknowledge what you have not done. The emails that went unread. The task you really needed to prioritize but didn’t. The doctor appointments you did not schedule. The conversation you avoided having.

In the silence, you must acknowledge what you have done. Drank when you said you wouldn’t. Slept with the guy out of desire and not love. Purged yet again.

In the silence, you are relinquishing your control over the outcome. You are admitting that no matter how many times you check the door your mother, your father, your significant other, you yourself will die.

In the silence, you are letting go and I’m just not ready yet.

Cue ‘Speeding Cars’ by Imogen Heap