I have a lot of anger that doesn’t know where to go. I am not sure, at all times, what I am angry about. I feel frustrated, turned around, upside down. I’ve bit my cuticles raw. The cold, wet of February is dogging me. I am down.
I don’t think it’s unusual for someone to feel off when winter settles her deep cloak of darkness around us. In moments I feel severe comfort in the form of hiding out. Other times I am so lonely I am unable to breathe without crying.
I miss a lot of things. I miss being 10. I miss being 12. 16. 18. 22. 26. 28. I miss the way a Saturday use to feel. The way Friday night loomed softly before me like a pillow top mattress. How good it was to wake up whenever my body said to. How bright the moon was. How good the front porch smelled. How I never had to hide because I was young enough to not have responsibilities, debt, fear. Perhaps this is what happens when you are nearing 31 and the only person you have been caring for is yourself. You get smaller when your life should be expanding.
I’m in rough shape, mostly because I use comparison to not only steal my joy but gift wrap it. In many ways I am happy and fine. What is this, then? This darkness that stays for so long and fills up my lungs with smoke.
Maybe this is just what February feels like. I’m not broken, my heart is intact. I am healthy enough. This is not last year. I am not who I was then, this is not the place I was. My eyes are not swollen often with deep sorrow. I have much to be grateful for.
Darkness is still a gift, if you turn it towards the light a little.