I’ve been getting help recently for anxiety and depression which was exacerbated by the sickness of our beloved cat and the recent death of one of my best friends. Grief is a strange thing. I’ve been well-acquainted with it in my life, but then I realize that the path to recovery is seldom straightforward and it’s certainly not something that happens quickly. No matter how I sometimes feel that I’ve left behind a difficult chapter, something happens to remind me that these things can linger. When my mom died, I remember clearly how one day I was sitting in her room, carrying the bag that she had with her in the hospital on the day she died. Her eyeglasses were neatly folded up among her things. It was then that I really stopped to look around her room and realize that it’s frozen in time. She had been unceremoniously cut out of the scene, and I’m left with all the things that had been part of her existence.
All the little knick knacks that she found cute and put on her library’s table. All the clothes she meticulously picked and took care of. All of the things that had once amused her or given her joy. All the journals that were her companion when she wanted to pour out her thoughts. Everything that had once mattered to her. Left behind.
I haven’t been writing a lot or making art these past few months because for some reason they trigger my anxiety. I’m being more respectful of how I feel and taking time off. Just the act of recognizing that something’s wrong and that I needed help took a lot of time, as hard-won victories usually do. It’s going to be a long process but I hope that I can make it out of this dark valley soon.