Phoenix Rising

I wish that I could draw. If I could, I would draw a picture of a woman with phoenix wings, trying desperately to lift herself out of the quicksand that she is knee deep in.  My mind is filled with tons of images, but the only way that I know how to bring them forth is through writing.

I really feel that quicksand has been that which I have been expected to spring forth from in life. And I am insanely jealous of those who actually had a solid foundation on which to build, or from which to take flight. I have no idea how I am supposed to achieve the same results that my more supported contemporaries have, without the same tools to work with. Yet I know that if I ever want to say that I am happy with my life, I have to.

It’s just so tremendously difficult.

Each and every day feels like a proverbial plastic bag covering me entirely; I can neither breathe nor move. I try to claw my way out of it, but the material is too thick. Each day I search for the tool that will serve as the blade that will free me, and each night I lie down a little weaker than I was the day before, a little more deprived of this indescribable essence that brings a light to so many faces…just not mine. I am so scared that one day I won’t get up again, and that is just not an option right now.

What do I do?

The only people I can truly speak of this with are people who are paid to listen, and while I am grateful for their service (not to mention the type of character it requires to do what they do), it would be nice to have someone listen who wasn't getting anything out of it. I do not listen to others for gain; I seek to give of myself. That is what my name means, listener. I have done so for years to people who are now too busy shining to ever contemplate coming near my darkness. That hurts.

Still, today is a new day. I shall fill my moments with movement, so that the time passes. Only a few hours until I can lie down and close my eyes again…and forget. At least for a little while.