Please welcome today’s guest writer, Kelli Grimm.
It used to come without thinking—the clicking of the keyboard racing the thoughts in my head—sometimes the words appeared before the thoughts finished forming. Now I sit and contemplate and second guess and stall. The words aren’t flowing, the thoughts aren’t cascading, and the result is stilted and ugly. I try. I sit and think and hope that I’ll find my groove and the clicking will begin anew. I’m still waiting.
Memories are slippery, inconsistent things. The emotions they evoke are powerful but biased. I dive into the waters and soak up the past, but I do not trust the swirling silver substance I swim in. In my memory I am brave, I am loved, I was better. In my memory I messed up, I could have been more, I lost so much.
The sadness is always a part of me so I often don’t notice when it begins to grow—to seep through my mind and trickle down my limbs and permeate every breath I take. It happens slowly, a silent hostile takeover and I fail to realize what has happened until it is too late—the sadness that was a part of me now consumes me.
There’s no place on earth quite as safe as my mom’s bed. There I hid from monsters and healed from sickness. There I sat for hours and talked and laughed and cried with my best friend—the woman who not only brought me into the world but walked beside me each day since, cheering me on and guiding me to the best of her ability. The bond we share is unlike any other in my life. Hers is a pure love: unconditional and unceasing and unearned. I never have to fear her judgement no matter what secrets I confess and I know that when I fall, her hand will be outstretched to help me up. She is my fiercest protector, most enthusiastic cheerleader, and closest confidant. So when my world shakes and my heart breaks, I find myself curled up in my mom’s bed, tears in my eyes but my best friend by my side.
I’ve heard depression described as a weight, and things do feel heavier when I’m in the midst of this depressed haze, but it also feels like cotton in my brain, fatigue in my limbs, and a lack of confidence in myself.
This is living.
It’s a road trip to New York and it’s eating cookie dough until you’re sick. It’s a rejection email from a job you don’t remember applying for and it’s winning free fries for a year. It’s staying up til 3 a.m. watching Netflix and it’s waking up at 5 a.m. to exercise because you promised your friend you’d go to the gym together at least once this week. It’s dating apps and clothes on the floor and sticky notes covering your door. It’s planning trips you might never take and it’s driving with tears streaming down your face late at night. It’s a box of letters under your bed and an ocean of memories keeping you up at night. It’s realizing someone else cannot save or complete you and it’s wishing they would still try. It’s kissing in the rain and slow dancing in the living room. It’s Scrabble in a coffee shop and kicking heels off sore feet at the end of the night. It’s sitting around a bonfire laughing about nothing and it’s kneeling by a hospice bed whispering goodbye. It’s painful, it’s beautiful, it’s every day.
This is life.
It’s full of potential and insignificant in the grand scheme of things. We can do anything you say and I smile.