Sometimes when I’m walking, I feel the ghost that haunts me. It’s a memory that has a predicted future, a ray with tangible purpose. I’m walking to an IEP meeting. I’m going to talk a parent at their home for the first time. My client is waiting for me at the park just a few more steps ahead. I can feel my work bag’s weight on my shoulders, gravity pulling down on all my paperwork and visual aids. God I love my visual aids.
Reality hits when I open the door. The ghost is gone, and instead of opening the thin wooden door to the office I’m walking through the tall, cold automatic doors of yet another hospital, another doctor’s waiting room, another disappointment.
The ghost never really leaves, though. I’m haunted by what should have been nearly every day, and I would do anything to get back there. This life? This one that I’m living right now? It was not in the plan and most days I’d rather succumb to the misty leftovers and imaginary continuation of my former life that plays in my head than accept what has really been laid before me.
I don’t think I’m cut out for this kind of life.
I want the old one back.