Has it really been two years since Jim killed himself? Somehow, it doesn't seem that long...more like maybe three or four months. Which is much better than last week, and I am unanimous in that.
I am being flip, I know...but I am just so damn tired of being sad. Tired of having debilitating depression hit me without warning. Tired of tears welling up with every sentimental song I hear. Tired of pain and insecurity. Tired of doubting my own feelings, my own judgment.
I have never got past the guilt. Daily, I wonder what I could have and should have done, or been, or become. I'm still a freaking mess, truth be told. And I'm tired of that, too!
I've been walking on eggshells for a very long time. I never know, you see. It hits like those headaches you get--the ones that feel as if somebody has hit you upside the head with a hammer. I become a hermit for weeks at a time--emerging only to work or go to the store. Because I never know. Will it be somebody he knew from Cedar Valley? One of his students? A scent? A sound? A snore?
Still. I'm alive, and I'm still capable of being happy (at least, once in a while). I guess I'm getting better.