Delicious Ambiguity
Last year I begged two nurses at the psych hospital to let me stay up late and watch the season premier of SNL. The very kind nurses made it happen and then right before the show started, NBC stopped working on that TV, which amused me.
This year I will watch SNL in my apartment, staying here by myself, for the first time.
I am viewing this as triumphant even though or maybe even more so because I am probably in the same state of mental health as last year.
People have inquired before if writing so much about wanting to die keeps those thoughts festering in my head. The quick clinical ansewr: No.
My answer: I write so i can live.
Unless you’ve lived this, I don’t know if you could ever understand what it feels like to believe at your core you’re not meant to be here. That you are wrong for being alive.
So I write these thoughts but I live opposite to them
There is something very disconcerting about signing a one-year lease when you are struggling through each moment, but I did it.
I’ve had a week ridiculously rough by any standards. A finalization of a divorce, a death of someone else who suffers from this disease, I moved out of two houses; the one I grew up in and the one that I lived in with Leon, the place where I was pregnant, brought home my son, watched him grow alongside his dad, someone I care about deeply.
And now I will sit here in this new place with the goal of making it through tonight and watching the Not Ready For Primetime Players, continuing to try and find the deliciousness in the ambiguity that the fabulous Gilda talked about.