The weather today’s drippy; rain wants to come but does so very lightly, reluctantly even. Grey clouds hang in the air; the atmosphere grey as well, damp. Through it I walk, heading downtown.
The ends of my brown jersey pants are too long, and need sewing; they kiss the pavement way too often, becoming sopped with moisture. I must take them to be seamed someday, when I remember, when I can push myself, when I can afford to spare the cash. Maybe I should just put them with the other pairs in the store and force myself to pay for them instead of waiting when I have the cash and always failing to do so; I fail reliably at forgetting, instead of failing at not doing what I should.
My steps, however sodden at the edges they are, are lighter than usual today; I have come from an appointment, and I feel heard, understood, even if I didn’t talk about everything on my mind. Part of my psychology is adjusting (quickly?!) to the fact that I’m not standing on complete quicksand anymore; I am doing something concrete, and it is in a field I enjoy. I’m even looking forward to seeing myself doing the same thing–consistently–further down the road, past the end of the year. It kills overwhelming, negative thoughts. I am not worthless, no matter what is going on, no matter if nothing is going on.
If only it would obliterate them completely. But that is what an illness is, however invisible, isn’t it?