I Still Feel Like I’m Making Up Reasons to Live
Shine brightly by remembering this is all just a story.
A year and a half ago, I was three months into a grief journey. My boyfriend had died. I wrote a story about how I was depressed and to get through each day, I had to make up reasons to live. I could see so clearly that this life is just a story — a plot unfolding that’s part of my destiny — and I could be fully engaged in it, I could attach to the outcome, or I could simply let it unfold and play along with it. I could pretend I cared — or not.
Now, I am no longer very depressed. But of course, grief comes in waves, and sometimes I find myself bawling my eyes out. Sometimes I am still depressed. Being human is really weird to me — and sometimes I look around and I’m like, “What is this place?”
It feels like in order to exist, I have to make up reasons to be here that my heart isn’t always fully committed to.
I often feel like I am unfamiliar with this life’s setup. I am a human on Earth in my particular station of society and in my particular country and town, with my particular privileged white girl first-world problems. And sometimes, it’s hard to keep caring about those problems because I don’t feel like me. I know…
