It’s been a rough evening after what was actually a good day. I’ve done everything I can do distract: journal, crochet, reached out to friends. I actually finished a cotton cowl. But bottom line is that tonight, just for tonight, I am caving to the depression. Listening to the sad songs as they randomly pop up just in time on Pandora. Just for tonight, I’m enjoying the sweet sadness.
This is my illness doing its thing, the way the sadness completely takes over and makes me be one-track-minded. I know it is, and thankfully Jared came from the old house tonight with a boatload of my meds so I can stay on track (I was woefully close to being out of a few things).
But for tonight, I’m sinking into the sadness that is lost potential. Not mine; I am still as excited about my dreams as I was this morning. Tonight is about what happens when a person I know is fantastic yet afraid to be authentic. I know this post may not make sense. I know I am being cryptic, but I don’t want to betray confidences. I am sinking too much into other people’s problems and I know it…that’s part of my illness too, that’s the reason I would have been an awful counselor or social worker. But it’s the part of me that I think makes me a great friend.
I wrote something to S. tonight, something I should have said or written 12 years or more ago. It was powerful and honest and thoughtful and probably not at all what the other person wanted to hear. Direct honesty and feedback. But I stood up and said it, whatever that’s worth.
You know what the original working title, the name of the file of my memoir was, last November? ”Forever and Twenty Days.” I don’t know if the one person (S.) that might make sense to will read this post or not, but that was the title.
May not be the conventional way it was originally meant, but it still holds true in the way all loves last in my life, somehow, even when it’s only in my own heart.
Get it together, S. You can do this. Authentically.