My mother used to read me the story of the Three Little Pigs when I was a kid. It was one of my favourite stories. I remembered every sentence and would do the whole huff and puff bit every single time it came. I am told I was extremely amusing when I did it.
I was thinking about the story today. About the last pig's brick house and how the wolf huffed and puffed with all his might but he couldn't blow the house down.
I feel like this year, I have been that wolf. Not in the "I want the pig because pigs equal bacon" way. But in the way that I feel like I have had a brick house inside me. Full of negativity and hurt and anger and jealousy and just a lot of darkness. And I have been huffing and puffing against this physical heaviness and have constantly been failing. The load seems a little lighter sometimes, and it feels like maybe I'm just a little closer to destroying it, and I do a little happy Chandler dance, but then the weight returns, just like before.
It's gotten more and more difficult to keep huffing and puffing. And it's not like anyone can help me with it either. The wolf never did have help. The house gets bigger every day and heavier and just that much more painful. I feel like letting it crush me, because it would be so much easier. I wouldn't have to huff and puff anymore. At least I wouldn't be constantly breathless and tired and sad.
I don't even know why I keep going, to be honest. Huff and puff and huff some more.
Remember how the story of Three Little Pigs ended? The wolf dies a horrible painful death.
I sure hope that's not how my story ends.