First, I want to say I know that this ramble is one of millions, so I’m aware it isn’t unique. Second, thank you for reading it anyway.
I’m turning thirty this year. This shocks me every time I think about it, because seven years ago, I never saw past twenty-three. I was terrified to turn twenty-five. Because it meant I’d failed. It’s hard to admit this, but I was upset that I’d failed to die. I don’t talk about this much because it hurts people I care about to remember. It hurts me to remember, too.
I’m admitting the world for me is still nasty. Not nearly as nasty as it was when I was twenty-three. But I still fight daily. It is exhausting. Kudos to those who do it for their whole lives.
I’m admitting that I still have no idea if it gets better. I say this because I’ll have solid good days for months, almost years. But I’m an expert self-saboteur, and I remember the depression. The challenge is learning to balance. Learning to accept it. I mostly avoid it, saying I’ll put it away for now and look later. But as with anything needing attention, it rears up and says, “It’s time. Drop everything and notice me.”
I had this thought out better in my head, but now as I’m typing it, it’s starting to feel too rehearsed. So I’ll just go where I wanted to.
In September, last year someone–I can’t even tell you how important they were to me–passed away from stroke complications. Since then, I’ve been reeling back and forth in my head, trying to keep myself from falling completely apart. I don’t talk about him, because he’s too special. He’s the one person I knew was listening when I screamed into the void. Definitely. He heard me and he saw me and he told me I could scream louder if necessary. You lose someone like that and your world is swept away. You don’t know what morning means other than “it’s today, time to smile.” You think food is gross. You think everything is for dreamers who can afford the luxury of a grin.
And then I see the way my brother looks at his wife. I see the way my sister boldly stalks the world with a challenge of “fight me, bitch.” I see the way my mother is striving so hard for personal excellence. I see my dad growing older, but still retaining his delight for Star Trek (Discovery, if you’re interested).
My point for all of this is put so simply in a song by one of my personal favorite bands of all time, Linkin Park. “The hardest part of ending is starting again.”
Every day you can start over. Tell yourself instead of “I shouldn’t,” “I did, but I will.” You are not the bad person you believe yourself to be. In the quiet of your heart, when you think no one is there to see you watch what you’ve become, you are still good. You are powerful. You are incredible.
The bad days will always happen. It’s what you do with them that makes the difference.