It’s been two weeks and I just want this fucking ride to stop. The speed with which I flit from emotion to emotion is exhaustingly excessive. Add my natural-born ADHD, and I can’t calm my mind long enough to process jack shit. Music helps to keep everything from exploding, but I can’t think it through. I need to be able to think it through. I’m so fucking tired. I understand why toddlers get the way they do.
We held your Celebration of Life last weekend. It was lovely. The girls handled it well. Mom did better than expected. I’m sad Dad couldn’t make it. I haven’t had the energy to check on him. I know it’s selfish, but it’s more than I can deal with. The pandemic has been unfortunately useful to me, as I don’t have to figure out how to avoid people. Silver lining, I guess.
I still continue to feel this smothering heat from deep within. It continues to scream for a release. I worry that it tastes of violence. I’m afraid it is going to escape before I figure out how to relieve the pressure, and that terrifies me.
Yesterday I found a lovely distraction. Before work, I posted a little mental health check on Facebook. It was one of those ‘this means…’ kind of things:
I’ve always been much better at taking care of others than of myself, so after work I checked the responses. I was pleased to see the majority, if they’re being honest, are at least doing okay. I responded privately to each person who trusted me enough to share their vulnerability, reporting a green, blue, or purple response. I am honored that they trusted me enough to be honest and I am grateful for the opportunity to connect. I know things are still hard for so many right now, and I want to help if I can.
I spent my Friday night talking with others that needed someone to hear them. It brought me peace to help someone else in some small way. I know I can’t save everyone. I know that sometimes I can’t save anyone. But if I can help someone else for a brief moment in time, then when my journey ends I will know that I tried my best to leave this world better than I found it.
Don’t get me wrong. It fucking guts me to know that I couldn’t help her. Not for lack of trying. I’m sure you know the struggles of addiction and the part one has to play to save themselves. I regret that I couldn’t find something to entice her into sobriety. I don’t know what she truly needed. I’m angry with myself for not being smart enough to figure it out. I’m angry with myself for not trying harder. I’m pissed at her for creating this pain. I’m so tired.
It’s so hard not to tell everyone to fuck off and just go set the world on fire. Especially when they’re being so kind and gentle with me. For all the ways I failed her, I hope I can help someone else. I have to help someone else. Something has to make this pain worth it. I need to leave this world better off than I found it.
Why is Life Like That, Why am I Like That? 