My high and I.

I am not ready and I don’t think I will ever be.  It’s like an exam really, you prepare yourself for it until you’re irritable and sick with anxiety but you never know the questions until doomsday. Why is that every time you’re really happy, someone comes to prick you and squeeze it out? It’s as though happiness is a crime.  Highs are rare but the downfall is so cruel and rapid. This was not even a temporary high, the kind that is induced by alcohol or drugs. This was a high that was seemingly permanent, the kind that kept my spirits perked up day after day, and comfortably curled up in me as a permanent resident. I don’t know where it began, I don’t know when it grew. That’s the funny thing. I just grew accustomed to it like a happy foot snuggling up to sleep in a shoe. I don’t know if it wrapped itself around me or if I wove myself around it. In any case, we were inseparable, the high and I. I lived in that endless moment never stopping to think of its absence in life. And now, when it seems to be slipping out of my fingers, unwillingly and painfully, my senses are filling up with dread and fear. It’s a fear of the unknown, a fear of the unaccustomed, a fear of potential discomfort and unhappiness, a fear of a new, unwanted beginning, a fear of diving into a crevasse that will hold me trapped forever. A fear of being naked , exposed and cold. An obligatory social ‘celebration’ that is going to prick me.

The high that is you kept me flying for years and I am so terrified to take that plunge.