Suffocation

No one asked if this was what I wanted.

No one checked to see if this was what I had in mind when I signed up to take on roles I'd never studied for, for which instructions only come in languages I do not understand. How can I ever find success if they won't tell me what's expected,

no list of boxes to check off as each

deed's done? Running in too many and too varied

misdirections, going nowhere fast. And then at last, occasional vacation, short break, a little space, my lifeblood, but that first day back is killer, all the catching up on all the things they wanted 

me to do while I was gone, as if they've saved up 

stressful situations just to punish me for needing breath, 

for needing oxygen and room. It might be easier 

to just give in, hold out my arm and let them stick 

the needle in to drain my life once and for all, 

or scream the things within at top of lungs

as if they'd even hear me, as if they'd even care.

That would be weakness, though, betrayal of the

strength that's there so deep I only whisper of it

now and then, when rousted from deep sleep.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

All I can say is, wow. That is dark. And not necessarily a reflection of my own life, much less my life at the moment. But we all feel dark now and then, I suppose. Consider it venting. Momentary wallowing. There's a place for that, emphasis on "momentary." Can't live in the darkness. Too many creepy-crawlies there.