Here’s a quote from Elizabeth Wurtzel’s Prozac Nation, which I’m told is aptly is about depression, which I’ve held to heart: “That is all I want in life: for this pain to seem purposeful.” I don’t know what she herself meant, but in my head I interchange “purposeful” with “useful,” has a meaning and result that adds up and makes sense.
An email landed softly in my Inbox on New Year’s Day. It read, “The following is an email from the past, composed on December 31, 2017. It is being delivered from the past through FutureMe.org.”
I know you believe that the hard work, sacrifices and full days will pay off. But you know the reward doesn’t include more time, don’t you? It won’t return the time you spent shelving things for later. It comes back in riches and growing old. Your wealth will add up; your time just gets shorter.
The first time I [thought I] dissociated, my senses were awake but everything in my periphery had turned into thick, glossy plastic. I saw the trees by the walkway as two-dimensional and believed that if I went over and pushed, the wall would topple over. I went on (another) period of personal turmoil — a
Peacefully turning 25 was… surreal. It was nothing like I thought it would look or feel. The past couple of birthdays I delayed having a really grand party, declaring that I was “saving it” for my quarter life mark. I was very nervous about the milestone overwhelm, expecting the anxiety of asking, “What have I