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I don’t know how to process this world. I don’t believe in god, but I believe in wisdom and truth. I believe the world has no meaning other in and of itself.
But one of those people who created meaning in the life of one my oldest friends - friends since diapers- had lost his meaning.
His wife died suddenly. 11 years together of happiness, with two boys.
She texted him in the morning from work asking him to bring her Starbucks.
She texted him a little while later saying she felt strange.
An hour later she died. A pulmonary embolism. A sudden death. A life of beauty wiped away. Erased to only be remembered through her family and friends.
I don’t understand this world but I exist within it.
The only upside to my work trip to Denver is that the London office will be there as well. Because if ever you need sarcastic humor, you can rely on the London office.
Oh and a dinner at Tamayo.
I think you shouldn’t have to go to work on your birthday if a client is going to bitch you out. And it’s not really a client because most of my clients are other researchers and we have totally great relationships. This person is just notoriously rude. So I take a deep cleansing breath, and await the email that she didn’t send before I left yesterday. Fun!
- Did not get job title promotion, though I’ve known for about a month
- person I wanted to get the job was offered job and rejected it
- person I did not want accepted
- worst cramps ever
- it’s my birthday tomorrow
- little one is being a pain, a real pre- teen
+I still have a good job.
Still coming up negative.
took the bus home,
carried both bags with two good arms back to my studio apartment
and cooked myself dinner.
You and I may have different definitions of a good day.
This week, I paid my rent and my credit card bill,
worked 60 hours between my two jobs,
only saw the sun on my cigarette breaks
and slept like a rock.
Flossed in the morning,
locked my door,
and remembered to buy eggs.
My mother is proud of me.
It is not the kind of pride she brags about at the golf course.
She doesn’t combat topics like, ”My daughter got into Yale”
with, ”Oh yeah, my daughter remembered to buy eggs”
But she is proud.
See, she remembers what came before this.
The weeks where I forgot how to use my muscles,
how I would stay as silent as a thick fog for weeks.
She thought each phone call from an unknown number was the notice of my suicide.
These were the bad days.
My life was a gift that I wanted to return.
My head was a house of leaking faucets and burnt-out lightbulbs.
Depression, is a good lover.
So attentive; has this innate way of making everything about you.
And it is easy to forget that your bedroom is not the world,
That the dark shadows your pain casts is not mood-lighting.
It is easier to stay in this abusive relationship than fix the problems it has created.
Today, I slept in until 10,
cleaned every dish I own,
fought with the bank,
took care of paperwork.
You and I might have different definitions of adulthood.
I don’t work for salary, I didn’t graduate from college,
but I don’t speak for others anymore,
and I don’t regret anything I can’t genuinely apologize for.
And my mother is proud of me.
I burned down a house of depression,
I painted over murals of greyscale,
and it was hard to rewrite my life into one I wanted to live
But today, I want to live.
I didn’t salivate over sharp knives,
or envy the boy who tossed himself off the Brooklyn bridge.
I just cleaned my bathroom,
did the laundry,
called my brother.
Told him, “it was a good day.”
Relate to this.