This.

I’ve been having an incredibly hard time with this lately. I’ve been depressed many times before, but this isn’t depression. This is different. This feels like death, grief. After 25 years of holding on to this, an integral part of my existence, letting go, and having people walk by this without immediately glancing, or pointing, or laughing (at or with), kills a part of me. But beyond that, the mere fact that this is over, that I have published the words, leaves a void, a hole that I must fill, and I will.  My words made my memories concrete. The pages are no longer in a white binder, or on a hard drive, real to only me. The proper tools reside within and my consciousness knows that this will get better with time. Depression is the opposite. That would be knowing that this would never get better, only worse. Depression would be experiencing this every minute with a ten ton truck on your back, a gaping wound in your chest, your head in clamps, and an ulcer in your heart, locked in a small dark closet—alone. This is not a pity party or a call for help. This is nothing new. This just is. This.

Originally written March 31, 2017.

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