And every occasion I’ll be ready for the funeral

In the end it is the easiest thing in the world to have clarity and perspective. All those age old sayings start to ring true, and it is near impossible to not get caught up in a game of “I told you so“, especially to ourselves. Sometimes I think we are all just expect the worst and for everything to end more than we hold on to the belief for hope and happiness. Or, perhaps, that is just the symptom of “my generation”. It seems that those in my age-category, or however one wants to label us, there seems to be an over-arching layer of pessimism, prettied up as wit and sarcasm, but still full of holes and sadness. We all seem to be ready for things to end.

Sociologically speaking, or from the words echoing from the other side of a therapist’s office, I’m sure the fact that most of us are products of divorce has a lot to do with it. Though, I have been divorced once, and widowed once, and I try to still believe in things working out – but, alas, it is a case of “trying to believe” most of the time. We are supposed to sit back and expect the floor to cave in, the other shoe to drop, and for those we love to leave. We expect to lose our jobs or be laid off. We are not surprised when our friends leave us behind, or when our relationship falls apart. We do not even blink an eye when we hear of the end of some kind of coupling, in fact, we seem to relish in the schadenfreude of the famous.

We seem to love to watch the “mighty” fall.

Thing is, with all this lowered expectation and anticipation of disappointment and rejection, do we ever truly experience anything? Are we not, instead, hidden partially behind are “expect the worst” walls? We seem to be our own Edgar Allen Poe story, except we are the victim bricked up behind the wall, left inside ourselves clothed in loneliness and made-up in sad. Do we ever truly let anyone inside?

I have often been accused of being naively optimistic, and in those accusations made to feel foolish for believing in things like love lasting and people sticking around. And, after awhile, I have found myself doubting all of it, too. I’ve adopted the armor of sarcasm to the point that sometimes I struggle to say the things I want to sincerely. I feel as if I have joined a war I did not sign-up for, and that I do not believe in, but here I am amidst the chaos and combat all the same.

I still clamor to get back though, and I still try to hang on to believing in things, it just, well, honestly it gets harder every day. The dread prevails, it sneaks into my dreams, it whispers doubts and fears, and it draws in question marks at the end of things said that before I would take in as truths. I do not want to be left with no warning, no one wants that kind of pain. But, the little girl inside of me, the one that was so beautifully naive, she still tries to push through. She says to me, what is the point of loving with one foot ready to run? What is the point of trying if the only outcome to expect is to fail? And, what is the point of living if you are only just waiting for your funeral?

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