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valkryorThe end of July just blows goats.
Some years, I don't even notice. Others? The weight of grief is a smothering thing. I know there will come a time, I know, when the sadness no longer registers, when it just becomes the end of another month in another year of what's left of my life.
But not yet. Not quite yet.
It's not so bad for me this year thus far. I mean, it's not great, but it's not any worse than, say, a few off days because depression is being a royal dick. I can't say that time heals all wounds, it just dulls the edges and makes it easier to carry. It might feel smaller, but it still weighs the same when it surfaces and wraps me in loss threaded with the twin regrets of what-I-could-have-changed and what-could-have-been.
So if I seem noticeably gloomy or distracted, it's not you: it's only the end of July.
Some years, I don't even notice. Others? The weight of grief is a smothering thing. I know there will come a time, I know, when the sadness no longer registers, when it just becomes the end of another month in another year of what's left of my life.
But not yet. Not quite yet.
It's not so bad for me this year thus far. I mean, it's not great, but it's not any worse than, say, a few off days because depression is being a royal dick. I can't say that time heals all wounds, it just dulls the edges and makes it easier to carry. It might feel smaller, but it still weighs the same when it surfaces and wraps me in loss threaded with the twin regrets of what-I-could-have-changed and what-could-have-been.
So if I seem noticeably gloomy or distracted, it's not you: it's only the end of July.
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Date: 2021-07-27 10:40 pm (UTC)