Not as much has changed as you had hoped, I think.
But, on the other hand… hasn’t everything?
I found myself short of breath (still) on the bus tonight. The #4, which I have barely taken and which also already feels like routine. This house, this blue room, these pink flannel unicorn sheets… I have slept and cried and yearned here, as if I have always been sleeping and crying and yearning here.
We are resilient, perhaps. We adapt.
(I am so fucking sorry. I didn’t know.)
On the bus: I type out to friends, “What if I was wrong? What if I have no idea who I am?”
And I know that this is the Depression talking, that lying creep. Because I do have an idea of who I am, and I think that scares me more. It is easier to be adrift, to let the waves push me where they always have. It is harder to grind my toes into this sand, and walk against the current, and splash towards nothing that is certain, nothing that is promised, only what I dream of so fervently.
What I think I can see on something like a horizon.
I am so very afraid.
(Dani, a prologue to what, though?)
(Oh, you know damn well what.)
My point is: I do not wish to make you sad ever, not for one single second, so you have to trust me, even when I stand up under spotlights and spill each and every one of my guts. (I am sorry for the residual splatter.) You have to trust me that I am… well, okay, maybe I’m not “okay” right this second. But I can see what I am walking towards, and I will be okay. I think I might even end up better than okay.
I do this without hope or expectation. I do this thing, because it is how I navigate my world. Because I’m actually rather vain, and I think that I am under some grand delusion that if I don’t get up on a stage and talk about The Thing, then it must have never even happened. But that’s just my nonsense and how it works, you know? And I am wrestling with the weight of what it would mean to let my nonsense affect you. (I suspect it already has.)
(I am quite a bit of nonsense, actually. Again, I suspect you already knew.)
Breathe. I am still writing it down in my daily planner.
My body hurts, and I long to succumb. To slip under, and let everything get kind of murky for a while. The colors above are too bright, and they sting my eyes.
But it isn’t time. No, my dear, it is time now to get strong. To work hard. Because perhaps one day you will need someone to hold your hand and help pull you against your own current. And perhaps our feet will be wrecked by bits of shell and sea glass, and perhaps the kelp will tangle around our ankles, and perhaps we’re already out a little too deep, but haven’t we always been?
There is a welcoming shore somewhere for the both of us, I think.
I believe in you. And I would not take away your friend, so I suppose I might believe in me too.