Some night last week, I had a dream that I can very vaguely remember just a tiny bit of. I dreamed that I admitted myself to a mental health care institution of some sort.
… With many computers… and cats.
I feel like there’s something I’m not willing to admit to myself
But I keep getting closer to uncovering it
I feel like I need to. It’s part of the process. But I’m afraid it’s going to hurt
Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’s something, but not such a big deal. Maybe it’s not very painful at all. Maybe I’m overreacting to a minor discomfort. Maybe it’s something absolutely horrible, something I will hate myself for.
This is temporary.
This is temporary.
This is temporary.
Someday soon you will be able to write about happy things again.
Someday soon you will laugh, and make someone laugh, again.
Don’t give up. Don’t lose hope.
Just hang in there a little longer.
I promise, you’ll feel better.
Of course, that won’t last forever, either. You’ll be back. Nothing lasts forever. Take comfort in that.
I can’t see anything looking forward. It’s blank. Unknown. I can only look backwards, on what fuzzy bits I can remember.
Young woman at the coffee shop, complete stranger, trusting myself and my friend to guard your expensive technology so you could leave the room for a break — your trust in us was heartwarming.
Right now it’s just a distant memory
As if long gone, but I know better
So now is the time to arm myself
Choose the weapons, don the armour
Smiling all the while, enjoying this time…
Cobain sang about not having a gun, but ate a 20-gauge.
Benington…
Avicii…
I would love to believe that if they had chosen the other path, they would be glad today that they did.
How do others find the courage?
If I can’t get better, maybe I’d rather reach that level where I can finally act rather than remain in limbo.
I write not on account of skill, as I am certainly lacking. Rather, I write because there is a deep need, vast and cluttered with dust clouds and a few faint stars and violent storms and ocean tides and evergreen forests and cycles of the moon and heartaches and hope for life and quiet pleas for death or sleep and a real person turned away, hidden, who I can never become.
The writing will continue until I’ve purged so much need, there’ll be no more words to be said, or my end has arrived — whichever comes first.
Do I do better with or without it?