“I am tired of striving. I am tired of striving. I am tired of striving.”
So ended a journal entry the other night. I had come home after dropping off my daughter at her dad’s house. Finally I had quiet time to myself.
And I just collapsed emotionally. I cried, yes. Sobby cries, too.
Tired of striving. Tired of FIGHTING to “make it”, to make a decent life. When did Life turn so challenging, anyway?
I know enough to know the striving I feel is in my head. All I need to do is to stop striving. But I don’t know how to do that. There is this overwhelming desire within that absolutely CRAVES expression. It’s a monster sometimes, that I seem to be keeping at bay.
Until it gets away on me like the other night. Usually when it’s quiet and I’m alone.
Writing “I am tired of striving” felt like I was writing my own death sentence.
“Anything you say after I am… creates your world”
“Be careful what you say…”
Crap. It’s not that easy. It’s also Happy Face Sticker time to pretend everything is okay and that I’m not having the overwhelming conflicted feelings I am at the moment. Creating the world I desire while this underlying striving-fatigue is running the show creates exactly what I have right now. Chaos.
Chaos in my mind. Chaos in my home (although much much better than it was a few weeks ago). Chaos in my career.
It’s my career that is of greatest concern right now, which led me to make this page this morning.
I ask and then I have to get out of the way, stop looking for signs it has or hasn’t arrived. I have to get out of the way and do something I love. Just let go.
It is so so hard to trust that is enough. There is no separation, though, between what I am and what I believe. When I doubt that simply existing is enough, I am doubting that I am enough. When I doubt that doing what I love (my kind of art) is enough, I am doubting that I, this magnificent creative force, is enough. I am pushing away the Good.
I want to know I am enough. I am getting there. It’s been a twisty journey.
I’m not tired of striving. I’m tired of holding back Life. I’m tired of pushing away my Good, as if little ol’ me has that kind of stamina. Fool.
Being human is clumsy.