It’s interesting. When I start to feel better (actively pursue feeling better), there are always glitches that rush towards me, causing me to question if I really am getting better or not. Yesterday evening was one of those times. A few things happened. Nothing big. Just some ghosts that hit me out of nowhere as I was waiting for a massage client to get ready. I was looking the DVDs thinking I need to organize them again, and there Chad and I were, packing all his things a few hours before his friends picked him up—separating the DVDs. Still acting like best friends. My heart shattering. After, I hopped on-line and boom, there he was. I wasn’t expecting it for some reason. I jumped right off. There were a few other things, other disappointments that are truly trivial and that wouldn’t even phase someone who was a more grounded than I am at the moment.
In the middle of all this, as I drove quickly to the bank in attempt to avoid more and more overdraft fees, Dr. Laura was on. I know, I know. She’s evil. She’s repressed. Blah. I like her. It’s rare that I don’t agree with her advice. She was talking to someone who was depressed. I already knew everything she was saying. She was saying how people struggle to give up their depression. How it validates their pain. Makes them unique. How at first, other people hurt for the person who is depressed but soon see it as a burden. All of this is true. And it is true for me. I do struggle with letting go of my depression and my sorrow (although, I don’t think that is the case when it hits me out of the blue like last night). If I let it go, I’m giving up on him fully. I’m saying that it wasn’t anything special. That I didn’t lose anything. That I have all I’ve ever dreamed of right now. I know these things aren’t true. However, they are hard beliefs to shake. I guess I’m invested in the pain—invested in the feeling that the pain somehow validates what we had and keeps it alive… if only in my own mind.
Well, it is time. It is truly time to do all I can to get the fuck over it. Time to live again. Time to quit being a depressing lump of gloom and burden to my friends. Time to love what I have, not only what I’ve lost. I know I won’t do this perfectly, and that I’ve quite literally forgotten how—but, I’m gonna do it.
I’m still excited about this weekend. Crazy excited, actually. Although, one of my new ‘quirks’ is that when I want something, I get so obsessive about it and think it can’t possibly happen. Total Eyore. I wait for it to crumble and can’t really accept it until is over. And, in truth, I have some reasons to feel that way. Chad. Debt. My folks’ situation. (But who doesn’t have a list of such reasons?) So, while I am anxious for this weekend, in a good way, I keep waiting for the phone call saying he changed his mind. Or for him to wake up Saturday morning and go, ‘Uh, sorry, you’re not even close to who I thought you were. I’m gonna go spend my birthday with someone else. Anyone else.’
Yeah, one more wonderful personality flaw I need to work on.
Despite how this sounds, while I am a little apprehensive and nervous, I’m not all weepy and stuff. These are just the thoughts going on in my head and the things I know I need to work on. If I say them out loud, put words to them, I think they are more likely to get done, or at least accepted in my psyche.
It’s time to live again, even if it means need to work to learn how to.
Black Coffee Tables
1 year ago