Love, Anonymous

I struggle to find a point in writing anymore, though there never has to be one.

Though the signs of COVID-19 have now left my body, I still feel sick. I don’t recall the last time depression so dark and murky threatened to drown me. I cannot place blame on one thing or even three but I can hypothesize that the good always comes with some bad. Sometimes really bad.

Reading gets my mind and heart swirling in a beautiful way. Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow by Gabrielle Zevin has done this but also brought a sense of melancholy. Not Gabrielle’s fault, the book is fantastic and I have not even finished. It just is reminding me how little I’ve done in the grand scheme of life and how little I am. While I have moved mountains in my own growth, I have not excelled in where I always dreamed. Helping people. Leaving the world better than I found it. Being a successful writer or influence in some deep philosophical way. I know it’s pretentious and morally ugly but I’ve always felt some deep sense of wanting to do more with my life. Maybe it’s to outweigh the bad that I started with or to prove to myself that it was good I never killed myself when I was 15, depressed and alone. To show her she’s worthy of more.

My friends are so beautifully talented in their own ways. I love them, fall in love with them every day and want to scream into the clouds so everyone will look and see how stunningly bright they shine. Art, community, makeup, kindness. With each day that passes I feel that I bring nothing to such a scary world and that leads my consciousness down a very steep and unforgiveable path.

For the few who know my identity and I’ve shared this blog with, sometimes I wish I hadn’t. Not for any fault of theirs, but it filters me in ways I cannot control. I can only hope that in true real life, they think about themselves more than me and forget this blog entirely. I want to be able to scream into the void anonymously, as intended. Sorry Grace, if you’re reading this (my therapist, if anyone was wondering).

Therapy is complicated. Scheduled. I still find myself masking without intent or purpose. It feels more professional than casual, which I’m good at. I don’t want to be good at therapy. I want to progress. Instead, I’m too aware of my feelings and know better than to ignore the logic behind them. This keeps me from breaking and healing. Instead I acknowledge and proceed. Therapists can’t be there for the hard nights and sudden triggers. When I forget how to breathe and my face is wet but my mouth is dry. When I dream of the person I loved most in this world but had to let go of. Who said I’d never be alone again but was a different person the entire time, entirely. Who was once my best friend but overnight became a stranger with a condescending tone who quickly went back on the poetic words he once wrote me.

I feel stuck. Like no matter how much I improve myself, I’ll still be sealed in a glass jar where no one can hear me and I can’t do what I’ve always dreamed of because I’m not capable. I climb and continually slip down the cold, transparent sides of the jar and even if I get a grip at the top… there’s a lid.

Love, Anonymous.