It is easier for me to type than to write, so it is easier to blog than to write in my journal, so that is often what I do. My sense is that this way it might also do more good.
I can’t remember if I’ve broken these numbers down to the last logical conclusion. I mentioned that 45,000 people kill themselves in this country each year. For every success there are 25 attempts, I read. That is over a million people. But the last logical step is that there are, what, 10-20 people THINKING about it for every person who actually tries? This makes, as a very rough guess, 10 to 20 million people who are so unhappy the thought of dying has some appeal to it, at least some days and in some contexts.
That’s a lot of misery in a land of plenty. But we don’t have bountiful purpose, sense of belonging, or love, do we? No. No we do not.
So I work on myself, but I do it in public in the hope it may help someone else. And what occasioned my post is this sense I have at the moment–I don’t know where it comes from–that I may, with all my sharing, all my misery, come across sometimes as fragile.
I am not the least bit fragile. If I were, I would be dead. If I had not killed myself directly, I would have found some other less obvious means, or simply died unexpectedly for no obvious reason. People keel over every day.
I like myself, I like my work, and I really feel like at some point I can make a difference. It’s been waist deep mud for a while, but the haze is lifting, and the mud is thinning. I am getting moments of calm.
Don’t ever worry about me. I can handle myself. You have no idea how much shit I have been through, completely alone. It’s ridiculous.
And when I am with other people, and I allow myself to tune to that frequency–my Garuda–it scares people. So I don’t do it often. I’m a dog, most of the time, and a whale here sometimes.
It’s not all good. But it is all good.