I went to my parents house to move some things in this weekend. Well, my boyfriend did all of the heavy lifting. In the basement where we’ll be living, some old trophies and plaques sat on a table. My mom jokingly asked him if he’d like to peruse my accomplishments, showing him I’d won a poetry contest.
She asked if my poem was sad and I said that of course it was. It was about unrequited love. My dad asked who it was about and when I said his name, he yelled it back in an incredulous tone.
Because really, it was ridiculous. My infatuation with this particular person was long and painful.
At the time I really couldn’t see myself out of feeling this way. It felt hopeless, endless.
That was eighteen years ago.
It didn’t just go away. I had to make choices, like deciding to not longer be friends, in order to get over it. Maybe that seems callous and unfair, but it worked.
But that wouldn’t be the last time I would have my heart broken or endure a nameless depression.
This is life. Life is ups and downs and choices and fate and indecision and mistakes and success and sometimes a sort of nothingness that is also everything at the same time.
And every time I’ve wondered if it would always be this bad or if it could it could get any worse, it was not and did not.
It’s hard not to dwell in it though. It’s hard to be in the midst of a difficult moment and talk yourself out of it, to look to some future time that’s not guaranteed, a light at the end of the tunnel that you might never reach. And sometimes it’s perfectly fine to just be in it, to allow yourself the grief and sadness. Don’t be hard on yourself.
Try to use your past as an example. Look to the times you triumphed when things seemed impossible or when something unexplained happened to turn things around. That’s what got you here.
Because for every instance it got worse, it always got better. Eventually.