going.

Yesterday, as I lay on my bed and felt the fan blowing cool air against my bare legs, I took a little trip down memory lane and re-read some of the blog posts I've written over the past couple of years. It was interesting. I can see patterns of emotions and experiences all typed up in those words on the page, and when I think back to their actual occurrences, I'm touched by sensations and memories that I'd all but forgotten. It was as if I was reading the life of a woman I used to know quite well but have recently lost touch with. How does that happen?


I came across lots of posts about him. I sort of knew that would happen, and I tried to prepare myself, but the shock of seeing his face and the re-telling of tales where he plays a main character still shot into the center of the Current Me, and my heart got caught in my throat like a rock, sharp and jagged. And it was then that I fully realized--and am coming to terms with--the fact that I still love him. I always will. I just will. Period. And so, that is that. And what I need, in order to deal with this realization, is time and space. Time and space for the sharp and jagged rock to dissolve. If that's even possible, of course. But you see, once it dissolves, the liquidy remains will run back down and into my bloodstream, always to be a part of me. 


Yes, he will always be a part of me. Because that's what love does. It becomes a part of you. Yes, it makes me sad that things ended the way they did, and part of me wonders if there would ever be a chance at reconciliation, because my God--that love!--I can't seem to shake it. But right now I have to just let the rock dissolve. 


And as I read through the tales of the Past Me, I felt a sense of longing. And restlessness. I've talked about how I don't like change, how I need stability and routine and predictability in my life. This is, of course, a result of growing up in a home with a schizophrenic parent. But there is a sense of restlessness that I can't seem to shake. Do you know that I had the crazy thought of moving to a new city and just starting over? Crazy, I tell you. Especially since I love Pittsburgh so much. Maybe I just need a temporary change of scenery. My trip to San Francisco at the end of June might do that. 


Or maybe I need to rearrange the furniture in my living room. Or paint my bathroom. Or hop in my car and just drive somewhere for the day, somewhere I've never been. My brain needs a little jolt out of its current synaptic coma.


I'm taking any and all recommendations seriously. Tell me what I could do. And...go.


{I like the photo above. Don't you?}

lifting.

I'm not sure what's been going on with my body lately, but it has been Full Of The Pains. If it's not IBS or horrible cramps or "borderline fibromyalgia" {yes, that's a new one, diagnosed as of this Monday}...

...it's migraines.

KILLER migraines. To the point where I literally want to remove my head and place it as far away from my body as possible in the hopes that somehow the time-space continuum will allow me to not be in agony. Alas, I have not figured out how to do that yet, but when I do, I'm calling The Today Show.

That photo of me on the left was taken yesterday at 5:45 p.m. Which was 23.5 hours after my migraine first made its unwelcome appearance. Excruciating pain. Akin to a burning hot rod being plunged back and forth, in and out, this way and that, on the top left of my head. 

And this happens about two or three times a month.

Usually, I have a Rx for these bad boys. But, wouldn't you know it, when I ran out a couple of months ago, I learned that my medication had been discontinued. Of course! It was inexpensive and it worked. Yes! Let's discontinue it! Because we, the drug companies, aren't making enough money off it! Yes! Let's!

And so, my darling doctor gave me some samples. I tried them. One worked. Hooray! She called in the prescription on Monday after my appointment with her {yes, the one in which I was diagnosed as having "borderline firbromyalgia"--whatever that means}, but the pharmacy called shortly after and said they'd have to order it and that it wouldn't be in until Tuesday.

"No worries!" I told them, a smile in my voice. Because my migraine hadn't hit yet. "I don't need it right away."

Except, I did.

Because two hours later, it hit.

And Advil doesn't touch it. And ice doesn't help. And closing my eyes and turning off all noise is pointless. 

And so I lay on my bed immediately after work, in agony. For hours. I missed an important phone call {I'm looking at you, AS} because of it. I eventually fell asleep, but woke again at 1:30 a.m. And wept. And clutched. And wept some more. Then I suddenly remembered that I had some Excedrin Migraine at the bottom of my purse, the little white pills spilled all over the lining because the cap of the bottle fell off. The pills took a tiny bit of the edge off, enough to go to sleep, but All Manner of Agony returned the next morning.

I went to work...I don't know how.

But I left an hour early. Headed to the pharmacy, hoping the Rx my doctor called in would be ready. It was. But I couldn't get it.

$100 for nine pills. With my insurance.

I wanted to cry. And throw up. You know, between the pain and the disappointment. 

But luckily, a very nice pharmacy intern recommended a cheaper drug, called my doctor to see if she'd approve, and I finally--FINALLY--got relief a couple hours later for the bargain price of $8.

That photo of me on the right? That is what the lifting of pain feels like. Peaceful. Tranquil. 

I cannot express to you, dear reader, what it felt like when that pain...just...stopped.

Lifting. So much of my pain is finally lifting.

a little bit of hope.

The past several weeks have been consumed with me being depressed. So depressed, in fact, that I definitely didn't want to make plans with anyone, go anywhere, do anything. But on Saturday, I had a full day of activity. And I think it may have helped.

On Saturday morning, I gave the keynote address at the Girl Scouts of Western Pennsylvania's Annual Conference. When I mentioned in my speech that I was a Girl Scout once, they girls went crazy! I even gave them a mini mission to do, which they loved. I've even gotten emails from some of them already, telling me how much they liked my talk and how they can't wait to become Affiliated Agents with the Secret Agent L Project. That filled me up. A lot.

For dinner on Saturday, I went to D's in Regent Square with my colleague/friend Joe, his son Christopher, and Joe's friend Amy. And I ate the most delicious veggie hot dog ever. With a big cold Coke. And super fries. And we laughed and talked and smiled and ate and drank and were merry. All while breathing a sigh of relief that we avoided The Rapture.

And Saturday night was the best. My friend Mike wanted to do something low-key. I didn't really feel like going out and spending money, so he sent a text that said: "Do you have a porch?" My response was that I did, in fact, have a porch...and wine. He came over, brought blueberries, an orange, cheese, crackers, and we went to town. Delicious homemade wine from my friend Aly's family, lovely pairings (thanks to Mike), candles lighting us, warm air enveloping us, stars lingering above us, Pandora Radio singing to us...right out on my back deck. It was perfect. I felt happy. Relaxed. Safe. We just talked and talked. Mike is always so good to me. Makes sure I'm okay. Takes care of me. Checks in on me. He's been really helpful lately, especially during this depression, my recent break up, etc. And sometimes, you just need that person. You just need someone to be there for you. 

Saturday helped pull me out of the darkness a little. And on Sunday, when I was at Mass, I thanked God that He held off on The Rapture. Because I realized that there is still so much I want to see and do and people I want to spend time with. (I'm looking at you, AS. Like, directly.)

That's a good start, isn't it?

golden.

 

These golden gates? They'll be in my sights come end of June.

That's right. I'm going to San Francisco. I've never been there, ever. I've never even been to California. But I'm going. With my parents. For eight days. And I get my own hotel room.

I will walk streets I've never walked, breathe in air that fills my lungs with newness and possibility. I will take pictures and make memories and spend time with people I love. My mom! She'll be there! Do you know what that feels like? She's doing so well! She's come so far from those scary days of not-so-long ago.

I have something to look forward to. 

And that helps the depression lift ever. so. slightly. Just like the fog rising from those golden gates.

on being alone. {part two}

{You can read part one here.}

When I got home from work yesterday, my apartment was dark and dreary. I blame it not only on the absolutely abysmal weather we've been having here in Pittsburgh {hello, rain and cold temps for DAYS, people...DAYS}, but also on account of the fact that my surroundings are sorta mirroring what's going on internally with me. I just wish the sun would shine for a few days in a row. My spirits really do lift when that bright ball of goodness makes an appearance.

But with the way the weather's been acting, I wouldn't doubt that The Rapture is on its way this Saturday.

I've decided, though, that for the next few days, I'm going to carry on as I have been, and try to get used to being alone. Or at least the feeling of being alone.

You see, I know I'm not actually alone. I have friends, albeit geographically removed from my general city limits, but there's always the phone and text messaging. {I'm the only person left on the planet who doesn't do Facebook, nor will I ever.} I have family--my parents are thirty minutes north and my brother is forty minutes southwest. But when you suffer from depression and you've just experienced a break-up, you feel like a prisoner in your own soul. You feel totally alone, isolated, and trapped. I know, I know. I probably sound like I'm being totally melodramatic. But ask anyone who suffers from depression. They'll confirm there's no exaggeration in the description. And the real crux of the situation is that when you're depressed, even though you feel alone, you don't want to connect to anyone. You don't want to go out, be with people, talk on the phone, etc. At least I don't. It's a shitty Catch-22.

I'm at this place in my life where I'm feeling really left out. Granted, that feeling is mostly a result of choices I've made. I'm 33. I am not married. I am not engaged. I am not in a relationship. I am not pregnant. I do not have children. I do not own real estate. I do not have a career. Hell, I don't even have the Internet at home. {Do you know why? Because I don't make a living wage. Even with a Master's Degree.} But the majority of people I know who are around my age do have these things. They are involved in those stages of life. And I'm happy for them. I really am! But I'm not involved in any of those stages. Because the man I thought I was going to marry broke my trust so deeply that there's no going back. And I'm terrified of having children, partly because I can't fathom bringing them into a world like the one we're living in now, but also because I just don't feel that maternal urge whatsoever. I look at babies and I feel nothing. N-o-t-h-i-n-g. I've also never been a career girl. I have too many different skills and talents to pinpoint me into one type of career path. And I also feel like the word "career" is a four-letter word, because it makes me think of power, money, bureaucracy, workaholics, and a host of other things that make me Very Uncomfortable.

Thus, I feel left out. Alone. Because I'm not a part of that life, that culture. The culture of marriage, the culture of motherhood/parenting, the culture of career. I can't really relate to those people in my life who are a part of those cultures, and it makes my heart sad. I sort of feel lost, which I never thought I'd feel because I always enjoyed the different things going on in my life: modeling, acting, volunteering, living in my tiny apartment, my job at the University, and my {previous} relationship with the Ross-a-tron, doing my own thing. But now, things have changed. And I understand change is good and important, but it's kind of thrown me for a loop. Like I wasn't ready for it. Like I wasn't looking, and it just hit me smack dab in my noggin. 

Our American culture doesn't really cater to those of us who aren't a part of the marriagebabiescareer culture.  It's not that I don't think marriage and family are important--they are. I just don't feel drawn to them. Partly due to fear, partly due to a true lack. What's a girl to do?

Hmmm...maybe the circus is taking applications.

{photo from this amazing site}

kick me while i'm down.

Awesome. Just kick me while I'm down, why don't you?

Today, it's official. 

I hate people.

a diversion.

I'm going to be honest here. I was so depressed last night and this morning that I almost called off from work. I literally had to drag myself out of bed, to the shower, to the fridge, and to my car. I'm going to call one of the therapists at the university where I work because I just don't know how much longer I can keep feeling this way. I'm gettin' a little help from some meds, but I think I need to talk, too. Hence, the therapist. I'm feeling incredibly lonely, incredibly empty, and incredibly sad. Not a good combo.

But on Saturday, I had a little bit of a diversion from all that gunk. And so, I share that diversion with you now.

Many of you know that I model. I sometimes like it, especially runway. {But sometimes I don't like modeling. Here's one reason why.} Anyway, I got to do some runway on Saturday for a benefit for Gwen's Girls, a local Pittsburgh organization that helps at-risk girls and teens. It's awesome. You should check it out. The event was held at the Frick Art and Historical Society {hello, GORGEOUS}. The name of the fashion show was Violet Couture. All the models wore one dress from a local Pittsburgh designer, and then the dresses were auctioned off after the runway show. Unfortunately, I didn't get a good photo of me in my dress, but I'll show it to you anyway. In a minute.

My hair was CRAZY AWESOME. {see photo at beginning of post} Lots of fake hair piled on and bobby-pinned into my short little 'do, thus making me look all 18th-Century Harlot. {Not a look my mother would approve of, but, well, you know...} I even had stuff put IN my hair--like butterflies and feathers. Like I said, CRAZY AWESOME.

ARE YOU SEEING THE BUTTERFLIES? THEY ARE SO CRAZY AWESOME, THE BUTTERFLIES.

And my make-up? Oh, man. Katherine Reel knows how to make me feel like the Most Stunning Woman. Love her. Girl does the best brows in the business.

I'm putting this picture in here again, because LOOK AT MY MAKE-UP. THE STUNNING, RIGHT? OH YES. THE STUNNING MAKE-UP, I HAZ IT.

Okay, okay. HERE'S THE DRESS. {The designer is the AMAZING Stephanie Keremes of Thomasina in Mount Lebanon. She now lives in London. LOVE HER.}

Good photo {from a previous event that it was worn at}:

Maneuvering in this thing WAS A NIGHTMARE. My heels were caught in the crinoline underneath, the zipper broke in the back two minutes before I went on, and my boobs are so tiny that I had to inhale to bring my chest up in order to keep the dress from falling down and giving the audience Quite The Show.

And then ME in the dress {with my friend and former agent Tom Watson, who happened to blink when the photo was taken}:

Um, like I said. Not a good photo. Sorry. I WAS VERY BUSY.

So, the runway show was fun, the music was great, the audience loved the dresses, and all-around it was a good time.

Except when I got home.

DO YOU KNOW HOW HARD IT IS TO GET 18th-CENTURY HARLOT HAIR OFF OF 21st-CENTURY NON-HARLOT HAIR?

OMG, people. Oh. Em. Gee.

I've decided to provide you with a photo story of my hair-removal experience. I call it, Nightmare In Laura's Bathroom.

Let's begin.

So, I get home, and I'm tired, but I feel a little less depressed than usual, and I've had a gorgeous dress on and beautiful make-up. But I know that I can't very well go to bed with this crap on my head, so I have to take it off.

Somehow.

First, my arrival into my bathroom:

A slightly-tired, but content Laura showing you the front of said hair-do.

A lovely side view.

And then I start de-bobby-pinning myself. First of all, THE HAIRSPRAY. I could have burned down my house if I'd lit a cigarette within twenty feet of myself. OH, THE HAIRSPRAY. But alas, I work through it, carefully removing bobby pins, moving from right to left.

Okay. The bobby pins on the right have been removed. I only cried once from the pain. And it amazes me how BLACK my brown hair looks in contrast to the fake stuff still attached to the rest of my head. Crazy.

Next, I continue working through the mound of hair, the millions of bobby pins, and the OH MY GOODNESS THE HAIRSPRAY.

I'm getting there. But I'm getting even more tired than I was when I started. IT'S A LOT OF WORK TO REMOVE 18th-CENTURY HARLOT HAIR.

After several more minutes and fourteen billion more bobby pins, I get to the other side of my head and am just about finished.

This is TOTALLY gonna get me a boyfriend. Or someone from Animal Control.

A few more tugs and pulls and pinches and tears, I am free. I AM FREE.

That. Was. So. Much. Work. Also, ARE YOU SEEING HOW HOT I AM? I AM SO HOT. LOOK AT MY HAIR. IT MAKES ME LOOK SO HOT.

But the pain isn't over yet. Now I have to comb out my real hair. You know, the hair that has OH MY GOODNESS THE HAIRSPRAY. Because hair stylists use hairspray on your REAL hair, and tease the crap out of it, so that it will be "ready" for the fake hair to attach to it. 

TORTURE.

I will spare you the details. Let's just say that I'm glad nobody else was in that bathroom with me. After THE TORTURE, I finally returned to myself. Smooth hair, from the 21st Century, of course.

Ahhhh...much better.

And then I got a shower and went to bed, knowing that I'd had a diversion from my depression from one night. And made some money doin' it.

on being alone. {part one}

Two nights ago, when the air was warm and the sun had gone down just over the horizon and there was that delicious pre-summer smell all around, I sat out on my deck and stared off into the distance. I like to do that on nights like that one. The world feels peaceful and safe and ready for me to just be in it in that way. And when my heart feels heavy and my mind feels cluttered, the air seems to calm it all down. And I needed that. I sat there, thinking. Really mulling over some things in my life that have been weighing on my heart. 

I had to say goodbye to someone last night. I'm not good at saying goodbye. I never have been. There's something so permanent about it. So life-shifting. And that terrifies me, change. When you grow up in a home with a schizophrenic mother, nothing is stable. That has had a huge impact on my adult life. All I long for is stability. Sameness. Predictability. But there was something inside of me that told me that saying goodbye was the right thing to do, even though it was so hard. I'd been praying about it {because, well, you know that's how I roll} and also just sort of feeling my way through it. 

Being with someone in a relationship is really hard. We know this about life and people and being together. What's so funny is that I think I don't know how to be in a relationship. I run. When things get hard or scary or out of my control, I simply run. I can't deal. Yet, I'm this person who raves about connection, raves about trusting and loving and extending kindness to one another. I'm all people need each other, we should be fighting for each other, we should love and give and dive in and open up to one another! But when it comes to my own life, I feel completely unable follow any of my suggestions.

I said goodbye to him because I didn't feel close to him. After 7 months. I couldn't fight for us, dive in, open up. I felt like I couldn't be myself, like I couldn't let down all the walls that have built up around me since that fateful day when someone else had leveled my heart. Those walls, they are made of steel, not stone.  They will not crumble like stone. They must be taken down manually. And I don't have the strength or trust to do that. Besides, there is something behind those walls that will not go away. Something that has been there for several years. A part of me that I cannot seem to let go of. A part of me that takes up so much room that I'm almost certain it's a huge reason why I couldn't get close during those 7 months.

Damn those walls...

I joked all the time that he was a robot, because he doesn't emote like I do. But in the end, I am the robot. Unable to really be fully human and vulnerable. Unable to be Laura.

He said to me last night, "You say I'm the robot, but you don't even open up to me." Because it's true. I can't open up. I can't be the real me. I can't let anyone in anymore. Oh, those walls. They are such fortresses, impenetrable and solid.  He said to me last night, "Relationships take work." And it's true. They do. But I am weak right now.  

I said goodbye to him. And I cried. Of course, I cried. He was respectful (frustrated and disappointed, yes, but also respectful). He even hugged me and kissed me goodbye. I buried my face in his neck, the warm salty tears running down his skin and seeping back into mine. He is a good man.  But my heart could not connect.

And now I am alone.

sun, you are my sunshine.

There's sun. In Pittsburgh. Finally. And it only took a bazillion months.

This is a photo of me {er, of my legs} from my lunch break today. I went outside, I did. Threw off the chains of my computer, phone, and the how-can-I-help-you associated with my daily duties.

Threw them off. Gave them the finger. Told them to go shove it.

And I sat in the sun, and it just seeped into my very core. And I felt like I could breathe again for the first time since September. Yes, September.

I think I may have Fibromyalgia. {Talk about a change in subject, huh?} I tell you this because I have been wondering for some time now why I a} am in chronic pain, b} am absolutely miserable when it's below 60 degrees, c} suffering from IBS, migraines, and other sundry ailments, and d} fatigued. The weather has made all of this so much worse, so much harder for my body to function, so much more responsible, I think, for the depression I've been experiencing.

So I did a little research {thank you, Interwebz} and discovered that I have almost ALL the symptoms of Fibromyalgia. And I also learned that a possible cause of Fibromyalgia is {drum roll, please} FLOURIDE POISONING. And guess who used to swallow her toothpaste for, oh, several years of her childhood? Yup. Me. {I know, I know. Gross, right? But I was a little kid who just like its minty deliciousness.} Looks like I'll be calling my doctor this afternoon and setting up an appointment to get this stuff Checked Out For Realz.

In the meantime, though, I'm going to go back outside and let the sun seep into my body. That vitamin D is some good stuff, yo. And it's free. 

Mama likes.

back to myself.

There are a few things you may not know about me.

1. I play the piano. And I play it somethin' fierce. In fact, I almost went to college for piano performance, but I realized that while I certainly have the talent, I most certainly don't have the disposition. Sitting in a practice room for hours and hours so that I can make music perfect for someone else to judge? Nah. I'll just rock out at parties where there's a piano and jam out on my electric keyboard in my apartment, thank you.  What's that? You didn't know I could play Mendelssohn's Rondo Capriccioso, Opus 14? That's okay. We can still be friends.

2. I also play the cello. Not nearly as "fierce" as I play the piano, but I do play. {Okay, confession time: I used to play, but when my parents moved us from Ohio to Pennsylvania when I was 13 years-old, my school didn't have an orchestra, so I quit. ULTIMATE FAIL, Laura. ULTIMATE FAIL. Because I wish I still played.}

3. I used to play the flute, too. In middle school. But I didn't really like it. Too..."flute-y." {i.e. Not enough power.}

So, why do I tell you these things?  Because I realized last weekend that those parts of me have been dormant for a really long time. And I want them to resurface. Soon.

Last weekend I went with my dad to Volkwein's, which is this amazing music store here in Pittsburgh. My dad plays the piano and the violin, and he always said that after taking five years of violin lessons, he'd move on to the cello. He's successfully completed those five years of lessons, so he and I ventured to the music store to pick out a cello for him to rent and use for lessons.

Because I know how to play the cello, my dad asked for some pointers while we sat in the practice room at the store. And, of course, he handed me the cello so that I could play it.

And that's when it happened.

I felt completely and totally Authentic Laura. I felt the most like me that I've felt in ages. I felt real. Alive. Happy, even. 

Yes, happy.

For the depression I've been feeling lately, I'm wondering if music--not just listening to it, but playing it, creating it--might help. Make me feel less heavy, less dark, less sad.  Because I really did feel such joy when I held that cello and dragged the bow across the strings and felt the notes vibrate through my whole body.

I think it's time to get a cello. I can rent one for four months for a very, VERY reasonable flat fee. And then, if I want to stick with it {um, DUH}, it's a monthly fee after that.

Dear Cello, 

I'm sorry we broke up. Can we get back together? I promise to hold you and love you all the days of my life.

Love,

Laura 



{Like the photo at the top? I took it. Yeah, that's me. Playing the cello.}

on being brave. or at least faking it.

Sometimes I'm really brave. Like, when I see a spider. Or when I have to make a doctor's appointment. Or when I have to floss.  I can muster up All Manner of Courage for those types of things. {Disclaimer: I tend to let out a war cry when dealing with spiders. But, you know, I deal with them. Spindly legs and all.}

But you know when I'm not really brave? When life happens. Which, you know, is pretty much daily. And lately, I haven't been feeling so brave. Yesterday? Not brave. Yesterday, I wanted to stay in bed, curled up under the covers, telling myself that I was Oh So Very Protected from the universe and all its muck. Today, I was able to get out from under the covers enough to go and get a shower, but I sort of wanted to bring the covers with me to work. You know, just for a little extra protection.

And tomorrow?

I have no idea. I think I might want the covers to be within arms' reach. You know, just in case.

I have this problem {well, one among many if we're being honest} in that I feel the weight of the world. Right on my shoulders. And in my heart. And all up in my head. And it overwhelms. the. eff. out of me. I just feel like life is so damn heavy, and I can't possibly carry any portion of it--not even a little slice--because it's just. too. much. My spindly arms--much like the legs of the spider I reference above--have no strength, no oomph!, no ability to possibly hold what the world is handing over.

The spinach I eat does nothing.

I am feeling like a namby pamby lately. A 'fraidy cat. A wuss. No courage. No bravery. No ability to look life square in the eyes and say, Look here, Buster. You need to be nice or I'm gonna bop you on the head.

No. I certainly do not have the ability to do that right now. And the thing is, there are things I need to address. Things I need to speak to. Things my heart is aching--oh, aching!--to get out from within its chambers. Because those things? Well, they are growing. And taking up room. Breathing room, if you will. Valuable, necessary air that helps me stay alive under the covers where I hide. 

I need courage. I need to be brave. And I just don't know how.  

What do you do when you need to be brave? Do you fake it? Do you muster it? Do you borrow someone else's? Do tell, dear friends. Share your bravery with me.

{I'm holding on as best I can. Or so the image above tells me.}

dear depression: i hate you.

It's happening again. And I hate it. 

Depression.

I've struggled with it before, and I hate it.

It makes me feel worthless...like there's something so wrong with me that I can't even smile. Granted, I've smiled a few times in the last several days, but my heart doesn't feel smiley. There's a difference. Perhaps you know what I mean. I feel blank. And I feel like what's behind the blankness is just bleakness.

I feel lonely as hell lately. I think that's one of the reasons I'm so depressed. I was talking about this with my new friend Jill {who is a gem, by the way} earlier today at lunch. So many of my closest friends--mostly from graduate school--have moved on, to engagements, to marriages, to pregnancies, to babies, to new cities, to new states, to new careers.

And I have not.

And that's okay--because I have made the choices I've made because they felt right at the time that I made them.  But still. The loneliness is unbearable at times. Never feeling close to anyone. Never feeling connected. In fact, many days I wonder if I'm supposed to be married, if I'm actually called to that life. I don't feel called to be a mother--I've never felt called to that. But some days I pray that changes, just so I don't feel so left out, so weird, so something-is-wrong-with-me.

Logically, I KNOW there is nothing wrong with me. Everyone's life is different. We're all called to different things. I accept that. No, wait. Scratch that. I understand that. But I don't like it.

So, anyway. Depression. Yeah, I don't even want to get out of bed. I don't want to do stuff. Don't want to go out. I just want to curl up in a ball, under my covers, and disappear. I'm going to have to do something about this. I'm going to have to go and talk to someone. And I will. I just hate this. I hate the weight of it. I hate the loneliness. I hate the tiredness. I hate the aches that are settling into every bone and joint and crevice of my body. 

And the lack of sun--oh, Pittsburgh, you are KILLING ME--isn't helping.

I just want to feel closeness. To someone. Real trust, real connection, real closeness. And I just don't have that in my life right now. With anyone.

eye-opening realization.

i cannot let go.

i thought time would heal it.

i thought time would make it stop, make it go away, make it lessen.

but it hasn't.

my heart doesn't lie.

i wish i could reach out, to let you know. to let you know what is in my heart. you.

i do not. know what. to do.

{photo from here.}