Some of you have just started reading. And for that, I thank you. I thank you for bringing me into your day. Into your life.
Some of you have been with me for some time. We’ve been on a wild journey together. And if you’ve been reading, God, I thank you for sticking through.
This journey we call life? It’s fucking hard. God, it’s SO fucking hard. And yet we all wake up every day to start a new day. A new day of hope. For me, my hope every day is that today is the day I truly I feel happy.
I step in a melting snow pile… I find a feather on the sidewalk… I face the sunshine and feel it burn into my face. And I feel happy. I feel a sense of complete happiness that I hope to feel every day.
And yet there’s the other days. The challenging days when taking a breath just feels hard. Passing someone at the grocery store and smiling feels impossible. The days when life is bullshit.
There’s work.
There’s spouses.
There’s family.
There’s friends.
There’s money.
There’s a mother fucking pandemic.
There’s so much bullshit that you wake up and say, no, today’s the bare minimum. Today I just put one foot in front of the other.
The problem is that when those days become weeks, and those weeks become years. And I really don’t want those years to become decades.
I’ve never hidden the fact that I attend therapy, and I truly believe therapy has changed me for the better. And I’m still a seriously flawed individual despite 2 decades (no bullshit) of therapy.
So does the feeling of bullshit ever end?
There are days I truly want to call bullshit on people. And I’ve had a list for quite a long time. And what’s happening is – whether it’s age or therapy – I’m starting to care less. Like if you want to give me bullshit, go ahead, but I have a whole porter potty full of bullshit so I just can’t take anymore. Or care.
And it’s not me caring less for people. It’s quite the opposite, I have actually always cared way too much.
There is this beautiful phenomenon happening to me where there is a mound of bullshit I’m choosing to not to see.
