Pity Party.

I hate being sad. It seems such a waste of my time and energy.

I want to shake myself and say ”Get a grip. What the hell do you have to be sad about?” And yet here I am. Once again. A deep ache settling over my heart. I want to shout at my friends. Why they can’t see that I’m just seconds away from tears. I want them to notice and cuddle me and say that I’m being silly. That everyone feels this way sometimes. And yet I’d hate it if they noticed, they’d want to help and how can they possibly when even I don’t know what brings this on? I’d feel silly. Weak. I prefer isolation. I hate isolation.

Sometimes I think apathy would be easier than this. No worry. No aching over something I can’t verbalise. Of course I only think that when I’m sitting on this side of the happy/sad divide, I wouldn’t change my ability to feel joy for anything. I submerge myself in routine.

Walk the dogs, make the bed, do the dishes, work into the garden

It keeps me focused on moving forward right foot, left foot when curling up in a corner until this passes seems preferable over anything else. And that’s the thing, I know this will pass, in a couple days, a week at the most, I’ll be back to my usual sunny self. I just have to wait it out.

So I sit in my garden, pruning, digging, trying to quieten my thoughts. I chunk the trowel into the earth. The doglets stick their inquisitive faces into the freshly dug earth, nosing at the dirt, and I explain that they shouldn't do that even as they unearth a couple of seedlings.

I swallow hard and rescue the plants from their sharp little teeth. I am careful with the roots, I untangle them softly. I gentle the seedlings into place, pat them into the earth again. Their struggle is my struggle. In a couple of days we will both have found our tenuous grip again.