I’m Going to Get Off This Road

Feigning happiness to match the perceived levels everyone around me appears to have reached has taken its toll. My forced smiles and hollow laughter are created from kinesthetic memory, not a genuine, exuberant response. Detrimental advice from strangers posing as friends props me up while unachievable expectations that things will get better from well-intentioned loved ones knocks me down. Both actions place a heavy burden on my weakened confidence, adding bruises to my soul.

Then again, maybe he’s right. Maybe I am wrong. Maybe it is too late to make a change. Maybe I am an ingrate. Maybe I would be nothing without him. Maybe he is the best I can do, and I deserve everything coming to me. Maybe I should count what he deems as my blessings but in reality are condemnations. Then again, what if I accept that the need for continually prefacing these thoughts with “Maybe” proves they are patently false? Certainly, that’s closer to the truth.

The ruts carved in the road I’m traveling are deep. Formed after years of attrition, they’ve been tempered by relentless browbeating. Turning the wheels to forge a new route to a healthier life is risky. With tires entrenched in furrows sculpted from abrasion, I fear what would happen if a quick course correction was attempted. If I try steering myself toward happiness from this position, additional stress will be placed on the front axle, causing mechanical failure. This won’t result in liberation, but dependence on this God-forsaken road, a road I can’t remember why I took in the first place.

So, my only option is to get out and walk alone. Leave the discomfort behind. Embark, untethered to the past. Find solid, level ground. I will rely on atrophied muscles to drag me out of the darkness and into the medicinal light by casting off my mental shackles. Independence is the key to unlocking these restraints. Although I’ve always had access to this key, I am now capable of employing it.

Holding an overstuffed duffel bag, she leaves a note on the kitchen table in plain view. It doesn’t convey reasons, just outlines basic instructions. Without apologetic overtones, it is written from the heart, a place she hadn’t sought refuge in for quite some time now. Before slipping out the back door, she pivots in the early morning calm. She wants to capture the moment so she can then turn and set it free.