Still Not a Letter: Rambling Like a Sober Drunk

by pronounced "ahhh" like a sigh

I haven’t done today’s letter. I’ve been busy and doing other things. Plus, I’m not sure I want to publish a letter to my parents so if I do do it, I might just keep it in my Google docs. I’m not sure yet. I’ll know when I actually write it.

So I’m sitting here. Listening to Ray LaMontagne  and all of a sudden, out of no where, I start crying. Like ugly cry. Like straight up sobbing, nose running, hiccuping crying. And I know that I love Ray’s voice and what he does to music and lyrics and the way he wraps his voice around the simplest word and makes it feel like the most desperate necessary thing you’ve heard in your entire life. And it moves me. And I start thinking about my life. I start thinking about how far I’ve come in the last year.

A year ago, next week, I was days away from the psych ward at Suburban Hospital. I was sad. I was excruciatingly sad. I was the kind of sad that lives in your belly and throbs until your bones ache. And I would cry until I was empty. And I would cry because I was empty. And it hurt. It was a physical awful. It was the bottom of everything but I could still look down and see how much worse it could get. And the worse was me not being here. It was me gone. Packaged and shipped off. Gone. And I fixed it.

I’m sitting here writing this article about mental illness and how it needs to be protected despite people who kill 9 year old girls and shoot congresswomen in the head. And how people who ache like that break because there’s nothing there to hold them. There’s no “evil”. There’s a silence that feels like you’re dead already so nothing else matters. And some of us don’t carry guns and we don’t turn it on others and many of us turn them on ourselves. And I’m writing and writing and writing. And I stop because I’m thinking. Holy fucking shit. A year ago, I looked at a bottle of pills and wondered what they tasted like and a year later, I’m writing about other people and their pain and using myself as an example of “better”. And I never thought that would be me.

I’m happy. I’m grateful. And the fact that I know that it gets better. And the next few months are all about how much better my life is going to get. And I’m happy. It’s not perfect. Nothing is perfect. My heartbreaks sometimes but it mends. Quickly. I feel disappointed sometimes but it mends. quickly. I get scared sometimes but it mends. It always mends. Like “normal” people. Things happen and I handle them. And sometimes I fail but I always get up and that’ slike a miracle. The fact that every morning, I get up and I’m happy that I did. When a year ago, I prayed that morning would never get here. And now I look forward to it.

I’m rambling. I’m just so grateful for this life. All the dumb shit and all the great shit. And I’m glad that I can cry and it’s not the end of the world. It’s just the end of a long ass day.

I should go to bed. I’m officially working too hard. And it’s fucking up my laziness credentials.

And I need them for naps and shit.



PS. Ray Lamontagne singing Crazy by Gnarls Barkley. If you don’t cry, then you’re not really alive yet and you should go to bed and wake up and try again. Seriously.