Stage Six Cancer
Currently, I live in my own personal hell. I am 22 years old. I am a waitress. I live in my parents house.
Those sentences may read that way, but how they resonate is like this:
I have stage six cancer. I will not recover. They are removing my bones one by one.
I never thought I’d live in my hometown again. Silly me. I should have never forgotten about life’s tendency to change in the nick of a second. It doesn’t make it easier, though. I feel caged.
It’s not only the boredom. There’s a shame factor attached to it. Returning back to the nest after you’ve already flown away is like being wrangled up and thrown into a zoo. I can fly for a little bit, but eventually I’ll hit bars.
I’m just trying to remember that this is all an ends to a mean. There is an opening on the other end of the tunnel, I just can’t see it yet. But it’s being carved by countless emails to countless HR departments; resumes and cover letters that sit unopened in inboxes.
Persistence. Resilience. They will soon deliver me to my:
I told my friend I felt like a failure. She said: “You’re not content. If you were content where you are and didn’t care to get out and find more, then you’d be a failure.”
So here’s to discontent.