(I don’t always know what these are anymore. Maybe something closer to a poem:)
(For you, Uncle Walt, I suppose. And for you. You know that, right? We don’t have to talk about it.)
The simple truth is that it hurts. It hurts all the time. I’m okay today. Listening to Disney songs, sitting on a soft couch, pillow in my lap, mimosa on my tongue.
(Have I changed? You were there. You saw me. Am I the same? Am I better? Am I worse? I’m probably not trying as hard as I should.)
(I’m no good at keeping a secret diary. I’m sorry.)
I’m still not ready to talk about The Thing. I haven’t heard yet and it’s the 20th of the month, and so I am worried. I feel trapped. I have to go, I think. Need to crawl into some other pocket of the Earth for a while. I think I’m going to go even if The Thing doesn’t work out.
It smelled like fall today. Like apples and promises. I promise.
I really want to write something GOOD. Something marvelous and wonderful. And I will, I think. I feel so far away from acting, from Shakespeare, and it breaks my nerd-heart. So, I’ll keep writing. This is sort of home now. But I just have all this muck to wade through before I can get back to any sort of pretend.
Because it’s still sort of everything, you know? I think I have to suck it all out until I can do anything else.
It’s good, it is. I am at a lake with my friends and I am okay. But I can’t stop reading You-Know-What and it takes my mind somewhere so specific and part of me just wanted to hop off the dock this morning. Just sink peacefully to the bottom and sing my woes to the fishes.
I’m kind of over dramatic and boring, right? Which, fine. This is practice. I am keeping my writing fingers sharp until I think of a story that isn’t this one. I am repeating myself, I know. But part of me feels like I haven’t made sense yet. Like… I have to find the exact perfect words to get this story right. I haven’t gotten it right yet and it wrecks me.
I don’t even think it’s the depression today. It wasn’t hard to peel myself out of bed, to wander downstairs to start coffee for everyone. It wasn’t hard to recognize the tears pricking my eyeballs and to get myself to the water’s edge. It’s fine. I’m fine.
But I am deeply melancholy. I just want to write sad words today and listen to sad songs and bask a little in my own capacity to feel. I believe so often that this is what’s wrong with me, that I need to put a stopper in it. Today I am just grateful and sad. Today I am thinking of one of my favorite lines from As You Like It: “My affection hath an unknown bottom, like the bay of Portugal.”
I’ll keep you posted about The Thing. I haven’t given up yet. I am stronger than I think I am, I suspect. You are too. You are… I don’t think you understand. You are wonderful in the most literal sense of the word. I don’t know where you’re going, if you ever decide you need A Thing, but I will be rooting for you no matter how far away I am.
Always. I really hope you believe me. Always.