I’m sorry. I didn’t know about the 1000 battles you fought today, before getting out of bed.
Blood stained the walls and the tears rolled down your cheeks. Doubt and despair crept fourth like monsters from the abyss, threatening to consume all of your hope and peace.
The unstoppable, voracious predators that feast on your thoughts: these are the most dangerous parasites of all.
The contagion that erases any evidence of a way forward, any visions of a possible future.
I don’t think this is what health gurus mean by “living in the moment”. What point is there anyway, when each one is stitched together with pain and anxiety?
I shouldn’t have assumed you’re good, just because I am. I shouldn’t assume you can even put together a working definition of what good means to you right now.
I’m sorry that I don’t know what it’s like. I’m sorry I can’t tell you when it will stop, or even if it ever will.
But you’re here. And I want you to know that I’m so happy you are.