disappointment and a refusal to surrender

11:30 p.m. and the tears continue to sporadically fall. An unappreciated reminder that beginning a day with such an optimistic outlook does not guarantee that the smiles will last. Between spasms of physical pain, my body repeatedly coiling into the fetal position, I am overwhelmed with the stabbing aches of emotional pain as well. Disappointment looms the largest, threatening the glimpses of hope that I’ve struggled to find and hold tight to in these past few weeks.

For weeks now, my life has increasingly felt like a tumultuous ocean while I struggle to stay above water. Despite the successful progressions taking place in my academic and professional life, despite daily reminders of love from my puppy and boyfriend and family, despite the girl’s nights of laughter and bitch-fests…despite all the moments of intermittent joy, I still find myself battling the black hole of depression far too frequently these days. The tears fall too often, the anxiety welling like a brewing storm as I wait for the few minutes or hours when the storm passes and I can once again find the calm.

I’ve learned throughout the years that allowing myself to conceive of expectations is simply an invitation for disappointment. And yet I cannot stop the hopes from rising, the beliefs that perhaps this time my expectations will not only be met, but surpassed. But the results do not appear to change. Feelings of disappointment wash over me, leaving me flailing ever more desperately in this sea of self-torment. Patience wears thin in the presence of desperation, the fight to keep walking the journey an unbearable thought at times. Daily pep talks with my inner demons encourage me to take one more step, and then another, and then another. And so the pilgrimage continues. But my steps are heavy, feeling as if my body is literally dragging one foot and then the other, my feet never actually leaving the ground.

I find myself wandering back into isolation, seeking the comfort of elusive sleep and immersion into the literary world of other’s words and stories and images. I sit in the bath for hours, anticipating relaxation as I submerge my body with a pile of books nearby. And yet the water is never quite warm enough to bring comfort, my skin feeling raw and abrasive rather than soft and soothed when I finally emerge. I build fires in my beloved fireplace, imagining that the scent of burning wood and the crackling of flames sprouting from the logs will lull me into a place of inspiration. And yet instead, I find myself staring blankly into the fiery orange and yellow arrows tipped in an icy shade of blue heat. Lost in a burning pit, engulfed by the smoke, unable to find my usual moments of beauty sitting fireside.

No matter what I do, it seems that my expectations refuse to manifest in reality. And so I am left with the realization that I must abandon the expectations, and do my best to just live, just be, in the moment. But it is a battle of hope against disappointment, unable to find a balance of letting go of the expectations while still embracing the fragile threads of hope.

I hesitate to write these words, to send them out into the universe. I know that these moments will come and go, that “this too shall pass.” I have lived this cycle of moving in and out of the same black hole for many years now and it is a familiar place for me. Yet familiarity no longer brings comfort, and the ironic peace I was once able to find in the confines of darkness has long since left me. It is a path I used to know like the back of my hand, one on which I was happy to allow those around me to guide me, lifting the shadows and revealing the light for me. No longer is this the path I am willing to walk, now knowing that I cannot be rescued by another and the shadows can only be lifted in a state of independence. Yet it is hard to let go; it is difficult to feel alone on this path.

Fear stands before me and I am faced with a choice: fight this battle or surrender. I am not ready to surrender.