Another Year; A Different Time

The year slipped in. The zeal for writing died with the old year. It was too difficult to read what was written without becoming deeply depressed knowing there was more to write and not knowing how to write what had to be written

Then the questions with no answers. Having always written for myself; not ever soliciting new readers, perhaps even discouraging those who did click “like”; knowing it is so easy to go down the Reader and click “like” on every blog followed without reading one word; it is my position that I would rather have a few quality readers who actually read than those who simply clicked “like” without ever reading one word. This is so unacceptable in my world. This action by some readers was when I lost it and wrote “Do not talk to me about God.” It was so obvious that the previous post had not been read. It was then I came close to making purpleborough private, yet there were those who read and they were my virtual friends. I did not want to lose them. My world had already closed in around me and they felt closer than the friends I spoke with occasionally. There were a few exceptions and those exceptions know who they are.

Yet, I write again to let you who read know, I am not getting better and intellectually know this is called clinical depression. Tomorrow I see a psychiatrist. I do not know him nor have I ever heard of him. I wanted a clean blank slate sitting across from me. Maybe I could speak to this blank slate words that I cannot even write here. This blank slate is not suppose to judge me; this blank slate is only supposed to listen to me until the words are all said and the vessel is empty and devoid of “what ifs” and “regrets”.

Will going to a psychiatrist work? not a clue. I still smile and say “I am fine” because by now folk think I should, ought, needed to have moved past such debilitating grief. I have not. Part of my heart went with Freddie and it will never come back; however, I want to remember the good memories, if only I could find them to remember.

There is too much clutter; too many “bits and pieces” not finished now nor will they ever be finished. I cannot finish them. They are not mine to finish; Freddie only talks to me in my head; is that enough to “finish” those things needed to be finished between the two of us? Will that free me from those things I regret?

Sitting here in the silence; staring out at a beautiful January day, wishing he were here to finish those conversations. What a selfish thought. He finished his life without complaint; with grace and dignity even in the face of a mom who rattled the sabre at all the Hospitalist doctors. I wish I had been a kinder gentler soul so he would not have been caught in the middle.

It is time; another year, a different time to try this psychiatrist, who perhaps will be better than those I have visited in the past.

And please do not talk to me about God. I listen to representatives of God, or ministers/priest, from three different religions on Sunday’s.