WAITING

Waiting. I do not do it well. On the surface I appear calm and steady. You may look at me and think, “Wow, she’s handling it well.” But you’d be wrong, because you don’t see the churning turmoil going on inside.
Waiting. I hate it. I can be patient when I must be patient. When life throws some sort of sledge hammer in my plans, a crisis, a catastrophe, I can make my way through it day after day, patient, slowly getting there. But when it comes to the things of my dreams which are dependent on the whims and schedules of others, there is no patience inside me.
So, here I sit, going crazy inside from the anxiety. Those who interact with me, those who see me or talk to me in person don’t have any idea. Even worse for the friends in email, facebook and twitter. They don’t know the constant frenzy going on in my heart and my mind and even my body. They read my nonsense, and they think I’m handling the wait so easily. HA! Nobody knows.
Over eighteen weeks have passed. I was told twelve. At twelve, I was told sixteen. Now it’s eighteen. I alternate in the extremes of my thoughts.
It’s been so long, maybe they love it.
It’s been too long, they must hate it.
Despair and disappointment, discouragement fills me, rolling through me, till I almost feel I can’t breathe. I want to fly! I want to bury myself in the depths of the earth. I want to scream the frustration of the hideous wait. I begin to doubt myself and my work. I fear my effort is wasted, the expression of my being worthless. The questions circle, around and around, an endless loop of why’s, when’s and how’s. Those all-consuming what-if’s.
I wish it was just over.
I withdraw. I stop tweeting, finding the excitement and fulfilled dreams of others to be like daggers. I speak to few, only one trusted friend, but I don’t discuss the wait, even with him. I pray, but can I expect God to care about something so unimportant in the course of the universe.
People ask me, have I heard anything. Smiling I say no, but I’m sure I will hear soon. Inside, I want to screech at them, tell them please do not ask. Asking brings it all to the forefront of my mind. I have tried hard to stuff the questions far back, away from the light of my daily thoughts, so the worry and waiting won’t kill me.
I pace. I pound my fist, grind my teeth, clench my hands. I tell myself to wait, wait, wait. And I hate it.
It’s dreary and lonely. Life goes on, work, sleep, eat, care for the dogs. Start the cycle again. Work, sleep, eat, care for the dogs. I feel mired in a never-ending spiral of a dull sort of quiet desperation.
My frantic typing slows. I’ve vented. I’ve ranted. The constant anxiety doesn’t get any better, but the release of words, as always helps me focus. I cannot say these things to anyone else, so I pour them into a document, post them on a blog, save them in a folder, sure that no one will read.
And I sit back, sip from my cup of coffee, take a deep breath and then another. I allow a semblance of calm, an image, a mirage of calm to come over me. I prepare myself to begin again.
I wait.
And I hate it.