It’s snowing outside. Today, again, there was no sun. Living here is like living in a deep, dark, snowy, cold cave.
But where is “here?” That’s the problem. I’m not sure if the cave is made of the massive snow storm fronts that have hovered over the northeast coast for the last month. It could be made of the raw nerves I’m discovering through my two-month mindfulness training class. Or the cave could be the silence that seems to fill most my days, where everyone I know is pretty busy with other things and I feel small and unimportant like I did when I was a child who felt she had to hide being sad.
I wish I didn’t wonder when I’ll be left again. I wish I could be sad about something without being sad about all the things in my life that I can’t do anything about. I feel loved, but I also feel broken and unworthy. I feel heard, but I’ve never felt understood.
Down here, I feel sad and alone and completely unable to reach out to anyone for anything because something as simple as “no” would just break me.
I know this passes. I know that this passes because I’ve been here before and then I wasn’t here. But knowing that this passes means I also know that it comes back.