WHY BOTHER TRYING

I feel frozen. I’m sitting here trying to get my thoughts in line with my focus. I am focused. What am I focused on?

Right now I am focused on the pit I feel in my belly and insignificance. I feel like my life doesn’t matter. I know in the pit, the pit of my gut, that I am right. My life does not matter.

I am no better than an ant in a world made of shoes. That is how important I am. I didn’t even exist when I was stepped on. Maybe I was never here at all. Why was I even born?

Why was I born…

Now I am taking that deep breath my friends gently remind me to take, “Breathe Amber. You can do this.”

I close my eyes for the next breath, but it is angry and sad at once. “Do WHAT!?”

The world does not understand what you want for your life Amber. Explain it to them.

“I want to be the President of the United States.”

My head just gave me that answer. It is stubborn and resolute.

Now I am arguing with myself, but the voices I hear are coming from everyone else, every person that I have ever known to ask, “Hey, do you think that I could be president someday?”

The majority response has been favorably fake, a generic affirmation that “yes” it is entirely possible for a woman to become president, even me, if I were to go through the proper channels and of course I would need to qualify.

LIARS.

It’s as if I have a wicked step-mother telling me I am welcome to attend the ball with everyone else in the kingdom after I clean the estate and then only if I am properly dressed. I look down at my tatters, knowing that I will never have time to clean it all, and how could I ever afford to wear what the good people wear, you know, the ones that qualify to be in attendance as noteworthy.

What do I want noted?

I want it noted that my life is worth trying for before I am smashed by a giant shoe.

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