Have you ever read “I Never Promised You a Rose Garden” by Joanne Greenberg? It’s probably my favorite book about living with mental illness; it’s also where the title of this post comes from.
I know I haven’t posted in a long time. I haven’t had anything to say. I haven’t been doing anything. I haven’t been thinking anything.
In the book, the central conflict is a choice that the main character, Deborah, needs to make: is “Real Life” worth it? All the work that getting “better” entails, all the sacrifice and pain, all in pursuit of a tiny, distant “maybe” – maybe you can be healthy, maybe you can fall in love, maybe you can have goals and a life.
My little maybe has barely been visible lately. And when it is…I’m not convinced of its worth. It’s so easy to give up. It’s so easy to be nothing. It hurts, but compared to the pain of fully existing, it’s like a luxury vacation.
I’m not going to do anything terrible; I can’t; it’s out of my hands. And there are still days when I manage to see my therapist or read or do something that vaguely resembles putting something out into the world. I just can’t, at the moment, hold out hope that it will lead to anything bigger.
It’s like standing out in the dark, staring at the sky, in hopes of seeing a falling star. That little meteor, that little maybe. I hope it passes by again.