The Wall

There are days I feel disgusted by my own life. Not because my kids aren’t worth it. Not because I’m ungrateful to be alive. It’s deeper and uglier than that. It’s the feeling of going through motions in a life that no longer fits the shape of who I was. Like I’m wearing somebody else’s existence and all the seams rub wrong. I can still do the tasks. I can still show up. But inside there’s this constant friction, this sense that the life I loved was taken and replaced with a survival sim I never signed up for. That’s hard to say out loud because people hear it as depression or ingratitude or danger. Maybe sometimes it brushes all of those things. But mostly it’s just brutal honesty. I miss wanting my life.