N.'s artwork was beautiful. In the way a mausoleum is beautiful. Or a dark forest. Or an abandoned silo. Or even a ghost town. Otherworldly. Tragic. Magnetic. Haunting. Fascinating. Profound when pondered. ...Disturbing, as only death and neglect and long-accepted despair can be. N. was "other." Apart. And none of us dared go near him.
Strands of keratin. They slide between my fingers and I think-- Where were we, Love, when this small space at the end of the lengths were new, emerging like buds of Spring from scalp and skin?
Few things are more ripe for charity than living with mental illness. I have to rely on so many other people, and 90% of the time, it's Campbell. And he's the one with cancer! But he wants to do it. And I need to let him carry me in the dark times...even if he's crippled too.
Or maybe I'm just telling you all of this to make me feel better. I'm not violent--I'm prone to yelling and occasionally punching walls or slamming doors. I'm not crazy--I'm emotionally unstable and unpredictable. ...Whispered words to a fractured mirror. But the real question is, have I accepted it?
Anxiety makes everything seem momentous, sometimes to absurd, apocalyptic levels. It makes me a caricature of myself.
C. S. Lewis once said, "Friendship is born at that moment when one person says to another: 'What! You too? I thought I was the only one.'"