Hope. Maybe faith. Sometimes belief. Sometimes wonder. For me writing and trying to not be a secret.
Most people aren't "bad" mostly they are a little careless, somewhat oblivious, and self absorbed. When it comes. down to it I am all that I have. All that I can count on at four o'clock in the morning in a hotel room away from home, like now. Except that isn't really true, because I have you too.
Two weeks ago I went to a play and dinner with someone I love. Someone whose life and my life are no longer joined. I found myself throwing up in a parking garage on a Saturday afternoon, and wanting to die, just wanting it to stop. I was cold sober and not ill, but I was desperately, desperately alone, defeated and without a glimmer of hope.
When I am in that dark and desolate place, is when I both know that my death is in my control, and that the choice to live is one I make every day. That is my purgatory. This week I am at a trans-convention in Port Angeles Washington. There are some workshops here that I wanted to attend, and that I will attend. I just don't feel so damn perky. I'm not sure I relate to these women very well. Some of them are giddy with the joy of fellowship and being out as girls in daylight. I'm not.
Perhaps I need to submerge myself in the sisterhood if I can, but I am having a really hard time doing that. I always have a hard time doing that but I will try. None of us here are disgusting, we are trying. Trying against all odds to live authentically. Trying against all reason to live with joy in our eyes. I have had times of joy. Holding my daughter when she was small. Falling in love, even when I knew that love is often ephemeral for me. Doing service work in soup kitchens and AA meetings. Reading of ideas from geniuses which span time and space.
What is true for me is that whether my internal talk will lead me to the brink of dissolution, or into the sunlight of the spirit, is more dependent on what level of connectedness I feel than on objective reality. I crave, I need connections. That is the point of Susan's for me. That is the point of therapy, of trans-conferences. That is why I am out, trying to live my days as openly as I can, trying not to be afraid.
I do not always succeed. If I had killed myself two weeks ago would not have been a tragedy in my eyes, It would have stilled the voices, quieted the anguish. It would have also been supremely stupid and self centered. Until you have cleaned up the mess that results when someone you care about has blown out their brains, you really can not grasp the enormity of that level of selfishness.
So my friend, you are not alone in your existential panda pondering. I do it, so do a lot of us. Something I have learned is that eventually the sun will come up. Sometimes it takes a little antidepressant chemistry, sometimes just a sense of wonder. Do you remember seeing your first butterfly or grass hopper as a child? I do. Do you remember being held by someone you were crazy in love with? I do. These are the memories that get me through the late night sadness. These are the memories that give me the strength to seek out experiences that might make more of them. These are the thoughts that make the day not seem so long.
I wish you well my friend,
Julie
