Though I’m still heavily entrenched in my grief, it’s time to at least attempt to get my life back on track. I can’t stay stopped here, even though I long to stay or even go back in time. That’s not possible, and there are other people that I have to think and care about. It is for them that I push on.
I wrote a poem for the first time in months last night. No one besides my husband may ever read it, but it matters that I’ve done it. I’ve broken through… something.
At any rate, time marches on.
I’m not dealing with my depression well right now. It’s getting harder, but that may be due in part to the season/weather. I’ve started writing about grief and depression, in the hopes that some day it will help someone. But sometimes, I don’t even care. All I want is to withdraw even more.
I was rereading my journal from a long time ago, and found my brief analysis on the word “uncanny” from my last reading of House of Leaves. It compares the “uncanny valley” to anxiety in the sense that anxiety a feeling of not being “at home” inside one’s self. I’m feeling that very acutely right now.
Nevertheless, there are miles to go before I sleep.
Edit: I just came across this quote and it’s apt:
Every mile is two in winter.
George Herbert
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