I am not dying, though I feel as if I could be, find myself fantasizing about the benefits of my life ending. Don't be scared, I am in no danger. Having spent as many years of my life courting the idea of suicide as I did, I assure you I know the difference between justifiable sadness and a dangerous, depressive state.
Those of you who have not known me for many years might find it hard to believe that your ever-loving, uber-mama friend suffered under the weight of an agonizing depression for many years prior to my current ebullient nature, but it's true. I did. But perhaps you've rightfully caught glimpses of that edgy undercurrent to my personality, of that darkgoddess-worshipping side of me that wants to lurk in cemeteries late at night so as to be closer to those have passed from this incarnation. It's still there. My work is to keep that side at bay now that I've healed, now that I've actively chosen to live my life and not wish it away for the suffering it involves.
I am fucking sad right now. I have been all but wallowing in the pain of lost love, of abandoned friendships, of unkept promises, of deserted dreams for days now. I ache. I yearn. Today I can hardly say three sentences without crying. I did find myself having an ugly suicide fantasy for a moment there, but I caught myself, righted myself. That is not what I want. My untimely death at my own hand is NOT one of the outcomes for my life (or my children's lives) that I consider acceptable. The act of imagining my own death now is like going out and trying to rekindle a flame with a highschool sweetheart; at one time that relationship held significance, provided a sense of comfort, but now it is grossly inappropriate, gangly, awkward, and immature.
Therein lies the challenge, dear readers. I have suffered plenty and worked hard to come to terms with the role of suffering in life so as not to be waylaid when it inevitably cycles 'round to visit again. I strive for wellness, for love, for life, for acceptance, compassion, understanding, enthusiasm. I spend countless hours in counsel with many dear friends and family members trying to help them attain a level of comfort with their own pain, and now I am called once again to face the spectre of my own suffering and be OK with it, and I am finding it a difficult task. I do not lament it, nor do I fear it, I am simply wearied by it. I feel too tired to do anything but feel.
I imagine that is my lesson. To accept suffering, to cease to judge any of life's experiences as more valid, more worthy than any other is hard work, is ongoing work that it is foolish to expect will end anytime before my life does draw to a close. I must accept this process, work with it, grow from it just as I have done before, just as I will do again. It's a cycle, it's a spiral, it's a circle our lives are unfolding upon. I have been here before, I will be here again, and I will have the opportunity to greet all points along the way over and over again in this lifetime and the next...it's existential poppycock, it's buddhist rigamarole, it is all and nothing and back again. Sigh. And I am still exhausted.
Right now I would like a little ease. I'm feeling attached to the idea of some comfort, some predictability and stability, some reciprocity for all the good love I put out there. Ahh... there it is. I felt it. As I write, the music got just right, so sweet just now- the fire is blazing, the lights are low, the babies are safe upstairs enjoying themselves and everything is, briefly, just is.
And it's gone. And it will be back and it will go and it will be back and it will go and it will be back and it will go. And I find myself grateful for the opportunity to live every minute of it rather than dreading it and wishing myself away. It is all so massive and insignificant and lovely and horrible at once. I have come this far.