Repeat

I'm walking up a steep mountain of ice. I dig my toes in and aim for the flat ground at the top where comfort awaits. One step, two step, three, and more. As I near the top I allow a smile to take over my face. I am determined. I am strong. I am, I am, I am slipping. I gaze longingly at my final destination as I will traction to my hands and shoes. As strong as my will is, it has no power against the falling feeling I have. I watch my goal slip further away as I wildly grasp for anything at all to fight against the momentum. The bottom is growing close. I shut my eyes and cry out for any help because I can't stop the fall on my own. Finally, I feel a patch of grass growing out of the ice. I scrape my knees as my legs fight to use the grass as an ally. It works. I am still. I begin my climb up again. I near the top. I'm finding hope. I slip, I fall, repeat. Climb, slip fall, stop, climb, slip, fall, repeat. Repeat. Repeat. What is the point? Any gain is quickly and easily taken from me. Why? Why do I work so hard only to be thrown downward again. It feels like nothing I do is good enough. My heart freezes over, stopping any feeling or emotion from entering my exhausted body. When I begin my upward journey again I deny my smile from surfacing and I stop hope’s influence from sinking in preparation for the disappointment that is bound to follow. Now that I have lived the pattern, I know that as I near the top, I am sure to slip and fall each try. My feet, tired from the effort of moving forward, find the groves made from previous climbing attempts. Near the top, I make a few more foot groves than before. I slip, I fall, I slide all the way back to the bottom of the mountain. I wish to stop trying. I wish to curl up and be at peace where I am, but the wind blows the snow onto my sensitive nose and fingertips. Shivering, I glance once more towards my desired destination. I can almost feel the warmth of the fire waiting for me as talk myself into starting on my incline one more. Each attempt becomes easier as a path becomes more defined. As I reach fresh, untraveled snow near the top, I pierce the ground with my numb toes. I stretch my shaking arm up towards the warmth. I don’t dare believe that I am going to make it. Then, it happens. The ice pushes one foot downwards and the other foot follows. I don’t cry out. I don’t yell and curse the world. I find one of my old footholds and use it as a break. As soon as I stop falling, the climb begins again. Only this time, I carry something with me. It’s a tiny, buzzing thought that reminds me, “As long as I make it a little closer to my goal, this climb will be worth something.”