Tired of being brave

There’s a thin line between bravery and stupidity.

Over the past few months, I haven’t been able to keep count of the number of times I’ve been told that I’m brave. I only wish resilience was an elixir I could consume to help me be stronger.

In my experience, the more you put yourself through, the farther you stretch, your capacity to absorb blows increase, but it also wrecks something within you.

At least that’s what’s happening with me. I cannot remember the last time I felt happy or at peace. I cannot remember when I last sat across a table from someone I love and spoke without any awkwardness or reservations. I cannot even identify things that make it all better on bad days. I just wake up every day because I have to and somehow weeks pass by.

The two years I spent in America and these couple of extremely trying months in Canada have taken a toll on me. I can feel it in my bones. And most days I ask myself the question – why – why am I doing this to myself?

In 2016, it all made sense. I had a plan. It was backed by my head and my heart. Now the head is muddled beyond reasoning and the heart, well, battered and bruised.

I would very much like to have a chat with whoever the fuck said that taking the path of most resistance was the way to a rewarding life.

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