Missing me one place, search another;
I stop somewhere, waiting for you.
Gods, FUCK. THIS.
(Did you know that you were looking for me? I did not know that I was looking for you.)
Team, I had a vision for today. To be fair, it’s a glorious April afternoon. I’m sure many of us had a plan, whether it was one we crafted carefully months and months ago or if it was some secret wish-deal-prayer we made in the dark of last night. (Mine was more the latter.)
(Tell me your vision, I will tell you mine:)
I was going to wake up, easy as anything. I was going to fling back my blue blanket, and scramble out of my bed, so excited and grateful for the day. Was going to listen to music and open up the windows and brush my teeth and consider what something like happiness could feel like in this new normal.
My friend made me a homemade Pop Tart. Today is Pop Tart Day, and that was supposed to be special and perfect.
See, I have books to read and stories to write and friends to greet (albeit from afar) and things to do and this Pop Tart to eat, but as soon as I blinked my stupid eyes open this (late) morning, there was already this crushing and familiar weight pressing down on my guts. The press that suggests: DOES ANY OF IT MATTER?
Does any of it matter anymore?
did any of it matter in the first place?
I know I know I know the answer. I promise you that I know. But fuck. Fuck the goblins in my brain, currently getting so very big and fat off of the miseries and horrors of the world. I feel small and crushed right now, and I do have these little pockets of energy from time to time, little bouts of of caffeine-induced madness that say, “DUDE, WRITE A BOOK RIGHT NOW.”
(I would like to write a book. I feel silly to confess it. Who am I? What have I to say?)
So, I return here, because my body longs to go back to bed. And I do not have the imagination for my own stories right now, do not have the focus to lose myself in someone else’s. I just have this (I know) compulsive need to exist.
Hello! I am very scared! I am so sad! Sometimes I don’t feel like I can do this… ANY OF THIS… anymore! But look! Here I am, scribbling my words out again and again, and maybe you are reading them, and this is A PACT, do you understand me? I am waiting for you, and not just in the ways you think. I am waiting for you deep inside my heart, deeper than I knew were carved the tunnels in my heart. (Is that weird? Probably. It’s all I’ve got.)
I do not yet cede this round to you, Depression, you fucking dick. It is only noon, after all. I have time left, to write, to read, to greet, to do, to exist. And, if I do get back into bed, well, fuck you, because maybe I needed the rest. I WILL NOT LET YOU WIN. Walt Whitman poetry thrums through my blood, and I am listening to 90’s Disney songs, and I am drinking chocolate-y iced coffee, and we are all doing FINE, YOU GUYS.
YOU ARE DOING FINE. Again again again, I will tell you what I cannot tell myself (what I long for someone to tell me): It is a gorgeous, perfect April afternoon, and, if you cannot get up in any way to greet it, that’s okay. Please be gentle with your beautiful heart. There are no rules to this thing we are in, beyond taking care of ourselves and each other in all the ways we can.
(I am going to get strong so that I can take care of you. I am going to figure out how to be good at this, if nothing else, I promise. )
Again, always and forever: we are going to be okay.