I wanted so badly to go home today. I was so sure I didn’t even fill out a menu card for tomorrow. Tomorrow’s meals are a roulette throw (is that the right expression?). So here I am. Still in 721A.
One good thing that happened today was that I was finally convinced that I have been holding onto a fantasy. I had felt love and believed that love, in the end, was worth holding onto even if everything else fell apart. But now that everything else has fallen apart, where is my love?
In January he told me I wasn’t crazy. He was wrong. I was crazy. Or at the very least, depressed. In that sense I’ve been depressed for as long as I can remember for reasons I don’t think I’ll ever have the bravery to tell anyone. The bottom line is this: I clung to him. I felt empty and I depended on him to make me whole. And it worked. He made me feel whole. But it was only a feeling. The fact was, and is, I don’t know who I am.
Today he said I’m not crazy. I’m just lonely. And my loneliness has made me depressed. He was wrong. My depression led to my loneliness. So many revelations today in such a short span of time. I’m so eager to go home, but I’m also excited at the prospect that there may be more to life than this. Can you imagine? After being you for 22 years, being told you were only living at 50%? That the greatest happiness you’ve ever felt was still only a partial emotion dulled by a lifetime of mental illness? What’s in my future? What does the world look like without the dark, tinted “sunglasses” of depression? So many questions. Maybe I’ll find that life isn’t supposed to hurt.