Here's the thing, though.
I'm actually...not happy. But thank you for wishing me a happy birthday. I'm not sad. Not really. I'm not sure. I'm in some fatigue-induced melancholy. I've been in an intellectual, non-violent (thank God) manic state these past few weeks (months?) and it's been exhilarating. But I feel like I'm at the tail-end of it and now—as with all post-manic episodes—I'm tired. And I feel a crippling sadness settling in. I feel like so many things in my life are up in the air and I just want things to settle.the.eff.down. Just. Stop. Stop spinning. Stop.
//
I spent the day in a seminar that I willed to happen and I was filled with anxiety leading up to it. What if the others didn't find value in it? What if they didn't enjoy? What if I was living in a pipe dream and nobody else wanted to get the pipe from me?
When one of my co-workers texted to thank me for making the seminar happen, I cried. I actually cried. And I realized, it wasn't because the seminar was a success.
It was because somebody thanked me.
//
I can never really think of my birthday now without thinking of how I "celebrated" it five years ago. In labor, scared and worried, but also extremely excited. I received the only thing I've ever really truly wanted with all my heart and soul and mind.
I thank you, Lord, for Lucia. For all my days, I will thank you. Thank you, thank you.
//
Lucia turns five tomorrow. She is everything I've ever wanted, everything I never even knew I wanted. Sometimes I look at her and tremble. How could I have been this fortunate?
I worry all the time. What if I break her? What if she isn't happy? What if she is my hopes and dreams, but she isn't hers?
And then she thanks me for coming home early (I came home late), and I cry.
//
In all things, I give thanks. Lord, you are wonderful to me.
//
So many people died today. Such horrors.
And now my unnamed, inexplicable sadness has gained a foothold on something real and concrete.
And I cry.
