I’m still struggling. Still unable to say what I need out loud.
And still trying to avoid just whining whining whining here. I remember all too well how the world views women who cry.
Without going into details— I’m stuck in a catch-22 (which is an amazing and sad and frustrating and giddy book everyone should read at some point). My friends and I are still trying to get together for our Christmas (2019). Should be next week but isn’t. For reasons.
And I’ve been using it as my anchor. As in, “Just get through <fill in current stressors> because Christmas in July is almost here. So now I’ve lost my anchor.
Okay, I can’t rely on other people (even good people) to define my happiness. Things happen beyond their control. They make the decisions they make. Que sera sera.
But at the same time, socialization with friends is important. Especially during rough times.
“The poem ends,
Soft as it began —
I loved my friend.”
That’s half of “Poem” by Langston Hughes. It describes much of what I’m feeling (but could never express as well as Hughes). And that’s just taking the words at the surface level, not reading into his depths.
I had a brief flash as I was typing / checking “Poem” what really described the other side of what I’m feeling, but I lost it already and my brain hurts and really is just too foggy to try to figure anything out right now.
I’m tired of the too-bright days. My skin so sensitive that all clothes, even the air seems to rasp days. The days of physical pain. The days of raw emotions ready to cut open again at the least word or thought.
If you’ve read this far, I apologize. This is the kind of teary blahness I hoped to rise above here.
If you’ve read this far, thank you for staying. For not yelling. For not jeering. For not threatening. For not sneering.
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