I often wonder how much I can take before I snap. My stress is unlike any metaphor I can portray, but I continue because I have to. I need money, so I work. When I’m at work, I carry on as if nothing is wrong. On one of my days off, I have a breakdown. It’s not what it could be. A full nervous meltdown hasn’t happened, but it’s in the works.
I am fully aware that one day I will lose it, but I have to keep pressing. No one has approached me yet and offered a worry free life. A life where I can blog, be on social media, and write all day. At least not yet. So I work. I work and fake happiness for days in a row. When I am finally alone, I cry and sleep half the day away. I’m an introvert. I need a day without noise, talk, and people.
It’s what we do, I suppose. We push ourselves to do what we must. Perhaps I’ll never have a complete meltdown. I’ll just work and get by. The true meltdown is my body slowly giving out. It aches and strains, yet I work another day. I work without a care, without an emotion, without a sign of stress so I can live. But the real living is wasted for the dollar. It’s wasted in my tears.
I can only hope my stress doesn’t break me. I hope I can fulfill my dream to write as a career. I hope I can live.