I have always had trouble answering who I am. Never quite sure, a grey mass seemingly full of possibilities. But not knowing who I am is not good enough anymore. As part of the work I’ve been doing with a therapist, I was asked to write about who I am.
Note: Brief mention of desiring to escape, suicidal thoughts
I am a person who tries. No, that sounds wrong. I try. Sometimes.
I try to be there, available, if somebody needs me. I have a compulsion to answer the phone every time it rings, lest it be an important call I might regret missing. I try to listen, even if at times I’m tired, or spent, or I just can’t anymore. I read, and learn, because I want to keep trying and hopefully do better next time. I know I am not perfect, and honestly there are people out there who would do better than I. I can try to help you reach them, if that’s what you need me to do. Or I can try to do the best with what I got, but it ain’t much.
I try to solve problems at work, despite often feeling like there are thousands of cases I’m not thinking off that are going to make it fail catastrophically. I try to remain optimistic, and idealistic even as I hear myself become jaded, the words “of course” come out of my mouth more often. I try to care, even as I feel myself stop caring.
I try. Because I got nothing else but that. Because I don’t want anybody to feel like there is nobody else out there to try for them.
But trying feels like a struggle, and a mediocre, pathetic struggle from somebody who simply doesn’t know any better. And, honestly? Sometimes, it feels like it’d be best if I just don’t try. People will find somebody else. They always do. Perhaps it would be best if they did.
I try, really. Often, all I try is to not be tired of trying.