298. Bad

The temptation, of course, is to stretch the good ideas out and cover as many days as possible. That’s not my goal anymore. And it’s not a failure, either; it’s an acceptance both of what this has evolved into and what I need it to be, for me.  

I came into this year convinced that the way to heal emotionally was to get stronger physically and intellectually. Isn’t that kind of an immature way of approaching it? But I didn’t know any better way, and while all it really did was distract me, that was okay. It was sort of like drinking the antidote with the snake still latched onto your neck.

Time. That’s it, really. Just takes time.

I’m enormously lucky that I’ve lived a life free of major trauma. I once joked to E that I couldn’t write a good novel because I’d never been truly, irrevocably injured. It was a gallows joke at the sea bed of a heavy conversation, but I do think that the best of us, the ones who make transformative insights into our condition, suffer things in their lives that crack them open so wide, they don’t care who sees inside while they try to heal. That’s not me, and I hope it never is.

But everyone has problems, and hopefully everyone has solutions. Mine sit close.

I’m wide awake. I’m not sleeping.

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