A woman in training mentioned how happy she would be if somehow, magically, 20 extra years got tacked on to her life. "Really?" I thought. "Now that's loving life. I bet she has kids. I bet she wants to see them grow and evolve as people for as long as possible." Not me. I can't seem to get excited about any of that stuff anymore. It's polluted. Well, that's not exactly true. Give me a few drinks and I might forget that most everything's gone flat and grey for a bit.... And then, the booze wears off and the depression gets heavier. Alcohol is a depressant, by the way, which is why I don't indulge often. There are days, moments, and people that I love. I mean, really, life is good. So maybe it's strange that right now part of my gratitude is knowing that I can die without worrying about anyone depending on me. My death would not destroy anyone. It would be tragic for the people who love me (see earlier post about loose ends), but I don't feel like I'm responsible for anyone. All my friends' kids have amazing parents and family to love them and raise them. My niece and future nephew don't need me. I am not needed, period. My dog would end up being someone's burden if I were to kick the proverbial bucket right now, but his days are numbered too. I guess, my death wouldn't put anyone in dire straights. Damn. I'm not in a very good place right now.
Funny thing is, once I write down these crappy thoughts, I feel better. The burden of depression lifts and I start to feel a little bit hopeful again. I see these words, my own warped thoughts, written out in front of my scrunched, heavy, weepy mug and it no longer feels true. The thoughts don't feel like they're really mine any more. It feels like I've cleaned out an emotional attic, filled with some other, more pitiful person's thoughts and ragged emotions. The dust settles after I write, I clean out the attic, and the light shines through. The space is cleared to make room for hope and growth.
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