I used to write a lot of funny posts on my blog.
Mostly about my kids, but some about just – life, my past, growing up, my teenage years, shit I did when I was young, you know, normal funny things you remember.
Like the time I made my ElderDaughter a costume for Halloween that was a slice of pumpkin pie, just as she wanted. It was fun, and everyone adored it. It goes into the “Best memories” box.
And getting a foal to fall asleep in my lap. Also, going into that same box. I was a horse whisperer up until my 20s, when I stopped having contact with them, because my parents didn’t have any anymore, & I moved away after having ElderDaughter.
I used to write about all these things.
Until I stopped.
And I don’t know when that happened.
I don’t know when the depression started to take over, when it started to color everything in gray, including my writing.
I know it’s fucking depressing to read this shit all the time.
It’s depressing to write.
But if I don’t get it out of my head, and down onto the virtual “paper”, it continues to burn me up from the inside. It gnaws, and grinds at me, knotting my stomach, making me physically ill until I find myself back here, releasing the poison.
And no, simply writing it isn’t enough. I have to actually push the “publish” button to start feeling better.
Does that make me a masochist?
That I need the outside validation for my feelings to be read?
I wish I could just jump back into being that person I used to be. The one who had people to take care of. She was happy, taking care of her little nestlings, after kicking out the grown cuckoo of an ex.
I want to be happy again, I truly do. I’m so tired of this constant dragging feeling. I’m so drained all the time, as though something outside of me is sucking the energy from my soul.
I don’t know how to climb out of this.
I don’t know how to shift the balance from depression to happiness again.
It’s so difficult to do this when you’re working at it alone, but I won’t burden anyone else with it, so – there you go.
I think I’m going to start, by telling the people I care about how I truly feel about them.
It’ll probably scare some, because most people don’t do this unless they know they’re dying.
I am, in fact, dying, we all are, and who knows when it will happen?
I’m not guaranteed tomorrow.
I’ve lost too many friends over the years – I’ve learned that lesson well.
So, I’m going to start telling people how I feel.
No obligation for response, none necessary, none required or expected. No response even really wanted, to be truthful, because I’d probably end up either horribly embarrassed or hurt.
Either way, not a pretty color.
So, where have I been? I used to be happy… Naively, I thought it would last forever.
Where am I going? Not a fucking clue. Not yet, at least. I am, however, going to work on digging my way out of this hole, even if I have to rip my fingernails to do it. And I will be continuing to journal here. I have to. This is my sanity. Whether anyone reads it or not.
Who am I now? I am a 48-year old woman, desperately seeking a way foward, toward the sunshine.
I’m tired of the rain.