I have been too sad lately. Too sad to stay awake and too sad to live. It comes and goes. When it doesn’t go, I get worried and even more despondent.
It’s something to do with my genes and my early childhood and my recurring depressions which make my brain more susceptible to triggers and don’t forget my PTSD.
I miss my children and wonder what the point is. I feel exhausted and worthless. I imagine the horror of whoever would find my dead body and decide, “Never mind. I can go on.”
It would give my hands something to do late at night when I decide to start picking the little scabs on my legs that I get from picking the little scabs on my legs. This leg thing has now gone on intermittently for several years. (See here.) It is comforting in the moment but disappointing afterward.
I got a used teddy bear and bought some embroidery thread. I can’t remember how to embroider but that’s okay.
I’ve been working on my poor little bear, who is not only willing to undergo my pain for me, he is glad to be of service. I can tell when I look in his eyes. He is offering Himself up like Jesus Christ, suffering on my behalf with endless compassion.
I am mostly maiming him with unneeded surgery. I’m throwing in some decorative touches like sequins but mostly I’m fixing his wounds, that is to say my wounds. There is a lot of work to do.
My heart is so broken but the poor little bear understands. He might never be art but who among us really is, right? He feels my love, even as I torture him.
Maybe that’s how it’s supposed to work.