Recreational trauma

How am I gonna make it

What if I don’t make it

Two questions that have been the bane of my existence. Pressure to perform. Expectations to meet goals.

Why I never could study in university. I don’t deal well with shackles to my curiosity. Punishment is never a motivator for me. Threats of lack and scarcity makes me quit right off the bat.

Stop. Stop. Stop.

I don’t know when I’ll be able to work consistently. I don’t know when I’ll be able to establish a daily routine. I don’t know when I’ll be out more. I don’t know when I’ll get married. Stop pestering me.

The voices in my head blaring. Like fire alarms. I don’t know what happens afterwards. I usually run and hide long before. But today I stop. I don’t care what happens anymore. My pace isn’t wrong just because it isn’t competitive or cutthroat.

Healing is what I had to do in order to just be myself. Crazy. Like paying off a debt so I can be freed from indentured servitude. So I can break the yoke of built-up ancestral trauma and conditioning on my neck. I just want a clean slate. A clean canvas. No templates, no dots to connect, no pages to fill, no quota to meet, no lines to fill in, no i’s to dot, no paragraphs to memorize, no sentences to correct. Nothing.

Just a chance to spill my soul on the canvas with no mind paid to the outcome. I’m the outcome. Let me retrace the process that led up to me.

Respond to Recreational trauma

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