Some days, all I have for the world is, Well, I’m not going to commit suicide today. That’s what I can do. And then I treat myself like I’m very incompetent and get through the day.
Welcome to today, tribal loves. My head is a jumble, a mean mine field detonating in chorus. In an hour I’m supposed to be at work where I haven’t been all week, because I’ve been feverish with a more feverish child to care for. Parents have dropped off Gatorade and Ramen at the door (no Plague for them), peanut butter and milk once we were past the hump of the virus. I have hardly seen any humans other than my sick kiddo and his dad on Monday. And my therapist.
I thought therapy was great yesterday, then I realized that I tricked my therapist into believing the dramatic love-shit coming off my tongue was the most important thing I could talk about yesterday in her office.
Here is the light inside, and I have to touch it now or I won’t make it today:
I know that when I get there, it’s going to be all right. I know that communing is what I do, and it’s Friday. We’ll play music in the cathedral on the jukebox, later on the stage. I will be as gentle with myself and others today as I need them to be with me, and we’re all going to wake up tomorrow.
