“Antonin Artaud wrote on one of his drawings, "Never real and always true,"
and that is how depression feels.
You know that it is not real, that you are someone else, and yet you know that it is absolutely true.”
Bloggers are writers- as least, some of them are. And writers are secret keepers, for all their attempts to bare their souls. As much as they will say that they are telling you every bit, every part, rest assured there is so much more. When you're tempted to be jealous of their relationship with their husband, the style of their hair, or the way their kitchen looks, stop and remember. Remember what they don't write about. There is so much they aren't saying.
I haven't written about some things lately. And it isn't even because I didn't want to be honest and tell my story. I think it's because I hoped that if I didn't set it in type, it would go away before it came to the must-be-written phase. It hasn't gone away. And I suppose I also dislike announcing it because I'm afraid people will treat me differently than they would otherwise. With that said, I write this not to complain, but just as a reminder that life happens behind these little blogs of ours, and sometimes, it isn't the pretty picture we carefully shoot, but something confusing and out of focus.
I've been sad. It's been in those small spaces in between moments, spaces so small I'd almost miss them. Slowly, it grew a little more and more every day. It got a lot worse when Sky was away- the daily stresses of Millie missing her daddy were unexpected and rough. The morning before he came home, I received two pieces of news that both angered and upset me a lot (one being that I'm not able to take a summer college class after all). After hearing this news, our reunion seemed lackluster, and Sky seemed disappointed. This, with a few other things that are so heavy on my heart but I'm not able to write, have gotten me back to this place again.
This place. The one I know so well, and the one you've likely read here before. The place where there is numbness at good things and a bottomless pit at bad things. The place where it seems the only thing I've ever been good at is knowing how to be sad. I don't know why it comes and goes, why it's come and gone since the the first time I remember it, at 12 or 13 years old. And I don't know how long it will last or how bad it will get until it's over.
I just know I wish I was practiced at something better than heartache.
*I have disabled comments on this post. I don't ever do that, and I always appreciate your words, but I needed to write this- not out of self pity, but out of truthfulness.