It’s 3:22 in the morning.
If anxiety is a pack of dogs in my chest, sadness is something murkier. It’s something ancient and giant at the bottom of the ocean, slowly stirring awake. On the surface it may look like the faintest ripple. The truth is miles below.
I’ve never felt like a person who lives in the world. Physical objects, other people, cause and effect all exist in a plane that I visit sometimes, like a scuba diver. I know how to interact with it; that’s what keeps me out of trouble. But I don’t know how to be engaged.
I engage with shadows instead, with voices. I can create scenes that feel more real, far more intimate than anything others can see. Sometimes. There are days when it’s all just worn out. A drought, a disease, a blackout.
The practical side of my brain says, it’s all just loneliness. Take steps, make lists. I will feel better when I go home next week.
It’s just a matter of holding on.