I don’t know how weird this will be, but it will be weird. I wonder if I can do it. I wonder if I can do any of it.
It is okay if I can’t.
Because I still get home. And in the interim, there’s some space to try.
See, under the new paradigm, that would be enough. I would be enough, just to leave it at that. Not to try and give you a tower of dust and sit, gormlessly, waiting for you to approve of it. I do think that will be nice. Not to have feel like I’m sitting in some sort of machine that’s siphoning my powers and frittering them out into the free air.
It’s been a fucking year, diary, journal, white space upon which I discharge my most potent emotions. A toll has been taken. I have gotten screwed over, I’ve had my heart resized and made transparent, I’ve suffered and lost. My grandfather. My mom getting sick. This horrible election cycle and its treacherous, terrible result. The job just NO-ing all over the place, depressing me well past any low watermark I’ve known before. A loneliness that clung and hung and reached for my throat. The panic that made and makes life just that extra bit more challenging for no reason beyond things aren’t entirely rosy all the time. Losing the health insurance that let me have therapy. Losing luminaries and meaningful guides.
And then, weighing just as heavily in that wobbly, shifting heart are all the people swooping in to look after me when I couldn’t get it together. Swooping is great. To distract me, give me joy, and remind me of what I am capable of. To give me a job! To listen to me complain. To make up little stories with me wherein I am entirely marvelous. All the people pausing to put their good thoughts into my life, to share what is tantamount to grace with me. It’s extraordinary how much that becomes the bridge from day to day, moment to moment.
I am not remotely where I wanted to be when this sort of transition took place last year and I forecast what I hoped for myself. In some cases I am further behind than I was then.
But, I endured it. I survived it. I will survive this shitty president and changing jobs and not being wildly loved by boys who ought to wise-up and wildly love me. Deadlines will roll by, hearts will zip up and go home, snows will fall. And your anthologist will not die, not from that not from that at all.
I don’t feel strong, but I also don’t feel cowed. I don’t feel as though it’s impossible to negotiate some sort of effort forward without busting a gasket when I eat a carb or take the easy way home rather than forcing myself to face fears and drive normally. All or nothing is the enemy. One of them.
In the meantime, one more day. One more post like this. :::cling:::