Uncertainty is my Enemy
I welcome uncertainty knowing it chips away at me, destroying me bit by bit; but nothing feels better than it.
Photo Courtesy of Pinterest
I begin my days with uncertainty and I end them with uncertainty. Uncertainty is my enemy, it gnaws at me when I sleep and it bites at me when I try to rest. Its needles hold my eyelids open and pin them deep into my eye sockets, pricking my skin so that blood accompanies my tears as they fall from my dry eyes. It’s strange. I’m not in pain nor do I feel like I’m okay—in the midst of two emotions I simply can’t understand myself. So, I let myself face the agony of uncertainty as a punishment for simply not being able to fight back.
I can’t rest, I can’t sleep, I can’t dream—all that’s left for me is to stare up at my ceiling in the face of uncertainty with eyes that simply don’t close.
Uncertainty had shackles wrapped around my ankles and a noose around my neck. If I tried to resist it the noose got tighter and it became harder to breathe, the shackles became heavier and harder to carry.
Uncertainty treated me worse than an animal—it chained me up and made sure I was never to be let loose. There was no such thing as freedom in the face of uncertainty, I was always entrapped in my own bubble.
I hated it. Uncertainty tied me down with insecurity and suffocated me with questions of “what could be?”
I hated it. It made me feel like a joke. Was I not worth a sure answer? Was I not worth a promised life? Was I not worth the bleak truth? I saw others live with the confidence of knowing reality, and jealousy would eat at me the same way uncertainty did.
When I looked at the one I loved, uncertainty would crawl up my back and force itself into my mouth—travelling to my head and leaving my mind fogged. When I looked at the things I loved to do, uncertainty would penetrate into the skin of my arms and strain my muscles, leaving me paralyzed and unable to do anything. When I looked at myself, uncertainty would claw at my eyeballs, leaving me blind; I could no longer see myself. Uncertainty ruined me, it mutated me, it consumed me.
So I fell in love with it.
Photo Courtesy of Pinterest
The pins that held my eyes open now felt like acupuncture. My eyelids were bleeding but it felt like it was relieving my stress, it was doing me good. When uncertainty choked me with its noose, I was pleased at the sensation it gave me—a euphoric feeling rushing to my head so I felt absolutely nothing else. When its shackles became heavy, I no longer felt like I needed to run—I’d let them weigh me down so I stayed stuck in one place. Staying stuck feels better than moving forward. There’s less risk of hurt, less risk of failure.
Uncertainty tickled when it crawled up my back and even when my brain was foggy and I couldn’t think straight. I was sure that the one I loved was the one for me. It didn’t matter that I couldn’t differentiate between colours, it didn’t matter that I couldn’t see red. When my arms no longer moved, I laughed so hard that I didn’t even need the noose to stop my breathing. Here I was, a writer with a pen I couldn’t write with, with my fingers I couldn’t move, with a book I couldn’t open. I can’t breathe, it’s all so fucking funny.
I begin my days with uncertainty and I end them with uncertainty. Uncertainty is my lover, it gnaws at me when I sleep and bites at me when I try to rest. Its needles hold my eyelids open and pin them deep into my eye sockets, pricking my skin so that blood falls into my mouth as I laugh hysterically...
It’s strange, I’m not in pain nor do I feel like I’m okay—in the midst of two emotions I simply can’t understand myself. So I let myself face the love of uncertainty as a reward for simply not being able to fight back.
