October was overwhelming.
I spent a lot of nights unable to sleep following certain events, the anxiety making it hard to breathe, to stay still, to hold myself together. I had panic attacks frequently. I had suicidal thoughts. I had manic episodes. They all seem crazy as I’m writing this blog; I lead a pretty normal life, a pretty boring life. How is any of this normal? I think I want November to be okay.
I went to an arboretum on the first day of November. It was beautiful. I’m not one to take pictures, and I rarely ever look back at them when I do so, but I haven’t been able to stop opening my camera roll for the past four days now. Looking at the trees make me happy. They are red and orange and yellow and green, and they are lively and huge and ancient — I wanted to up to them and hug them, ask if they would take me in as their child and raise me. I feel like they would’ve said yes. I feel like they would be okay with me wanting to lie beneath them and turn to moss.
‘From my rotting body, flowers shall grow and I am in them, and that is eternity.’ — Edvard Munch
I’m going to have to make a big decision in the near future. I feel lost and directionless, and I tell myself that I’m lucky to be able to make my these decisions myself, but it’s still hard. I should be able to do hard things anyway, I suppose. If I don’t want to live a small, disingenuous life until I die, I should be true to myself and I should be brave. I should take responsibility. I will find a way.
