I am struggling today. I feel like I shouldn't be struggling. The sun is shining, the political landscape has broken wide open and people are slowly learning the rules of engagement (after a mostly silent acceptance of the status quo), my children have trucked along to school, the house is quiet.
So I pull on black clothing, a nod to the YA novel Divergent, and the protagonist who, like me, doubts her abilities but forces herself through situations out of sheer will. She is not Dauntless but that is her front, her public face, her bravado. Perhaps I can leech some of this fictional bravery into me (the English teacher in me can appreciate the irony of this).
I am not undaunted. I do not feel particularly brave. My inner monologue is rife with stinging criticism and sharp regret. My choices, haphazard, perhaps.
I feel my energy waning; the slow slide of apathy encroaching in my idling thoughts, in my oddly sluggish movements (even while running), in my lack of awareness.
I am sicker than I thought. I am #NotMyselfToday