I want to cry but my eyes are dry

It’s really strange. Since I’ve gone to therapy I’ve been really great with managing my emotions and anxiety. I could call myself happy, or at least content most of the time. Whenever I feel the slow crawl of despair looming over me, I reach back and grab it by the neck. I kill it with a mantra of “It’s okay. Sometimes it doesn’t feel like it is or could ever be, but it will be.” In fact, I’ve become so adept at it that it feels like something is missing, like there’s a hole somewhere. Which is how one would usually describe the opposite phenomena, isn’t it?

Does this mean I’m bored? Maybe I got too used to feeling like shit all the time, and now without it I’ve become too stable. I’m by no means a fan of roller coasters, but mental ones were something of an engaging activity.

Maybe it’s because now I have the skills to reason my way out of depression instead of further into it. I’ve lost the ability to pity myself, which was probably another one of my favoured pasttimes. Actually, no — I didn’t lose the ability to pity myself, I lost what would have been a somewhat legitimate reason to do so.

So it’s not something missing, rather it’s the uncomfortable sensation of being exposed. The safety of being held back and weighted down is gone.

Now there’s nothing for me to cower behind, no mental barricade, no demons in the night. Just the unwavering knowledge that the way through the tunnel is only ever compromises, and that to go is to go forward.

The world has opened up in front of me, with all of its exhilirating depths and bounds.

Fragment (ii – nature)

She seemed to have a disposition born of great restraint. Her actions methodical, movements controlled. Maybe there had once been something wild in her, but it had been tamped down with age and the burden of wisdom.

I wonder what she’d be like angry — really, truly, angry?

(You should have thrown more tantrums as a child.)