Yes, I’m the Problem — It’s Me

But no one’s rooting on this dark horse.

Photo by Maria Lysenko on Unsplash

Sometimes I wonder when my real life will begin.

My weekends often consist of swiping through my social media apps and staring in wonder at the colorful images that drift past. Someone just had a baby. An old coworker adopted an adorable cat who’s now preening for photos. An artist I follow is going to be having her first major event to showcase her pieces. The images sweep past my vision as I dole out hearts to every single one.

The only thing you’d need to complete the picture is a half-drunk glass of wine and a cat curled in my lap. Then you’d know for sure that I’d hit some kind of rock bottom in my life despite the make-believe alcohol (I don’t drink) and a friendly feline who actually doesn’t exist (my cats show their affection from afar).

I stare up at ceilings and trace invisible constellations and wonder just where I fit as a puzzle piece on a spectrum of the universe.

Then I close my eyes and try to ignore the resounding echo chamber in my head.

Am I the problem? Why, yes, how did you know?

Loneliness makes people do stupid things.

The cautionary tale I have comes from the anecdotes my mother used to dole out…