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 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.