Late Night Post
It’s late. It’s late for a post, and it’s late for me. It’s the final hour of the evening and I’m pretty sure my life just shifted considerably. I tried to come home and go right to sleep, but that was a fool’s errand. I tossed for about twenty-five minutes before realizing that this feeling wasn’t going away. I had to do something, so here I am. I’m ashamed that I haven’t put as much precedence on these posts as I promised myself that I would, but I feel like the ball inside of me has finally relaxed, and maybe I’ll be able to focus on myself again.
I’ve been living in a haze of naps and wandering for the past few weeks. This period reeks of seasonal depression—there’s been a lot of staring out the window in a daze, a lot of battling the alarm in the morning. A lot of convincing myself to get out of bed and do something. Today, I was nearly late for work because I needed to iron. The last time that happened to me, I was nineteen. When the snow suddenly fell in GP, my mood tanked, though it’s manageable (I believe because of the medication). I can tell it’s going to be a rough winter, but I feel self aware enough that this little September test has only confirmed to me that I will make it through. I’m going to start the vitamin D in the morning and get a jump on that, and (though I hate to admit it) I’ve seriously considered tanning through the winter. Who knows?
Back to this shift of mine. It’s big, and fresh. At risk of upsetting those involved, I’ll spare the details, but I will say that there is a certain clarity that is resting on my shoulders right now. I’m not sure if it’s clarity, actually, but it is something. Maybe it’s the pat on the back that I owe myself—I was strong tonight, and I showed up for myself. I’m proud of me.
2018 has proved to be the weirdest, most intense year of my life. I feel like when I’m an old man looking back, twenty-nine is going to look like a right-angle in the road of my life. Hard left turn. It’s a crime against our humanity that it takes this long to even come close to knowing who you actually are. Not who you are based on outside influences, cultural traditions, or preconceived notions romanticized from a young age—but who you are in that half-second between you opening your eyes and you waking up, when you look in the mirror or when you dream. But, then again, maybe that’s the story of life. Maybe it’s just a series of rebirths inside of a life, and when they stop, so do you. I could name you four women in one breath that exemplify the positive in this statement, and I believe that the negative is the reason for mid-life crises in men. This isn’t the first time in my life that I’ve felt like this, and it probably won’t be the last. Let’s just hope I can avoid the mid-life crisis part of things. I’ve got about twenty-five years to figure that one out.
See you tomorrow.