September

September is usually my favourite season, my most golden month of the year. I love the clothes. I love the weather. I love the smell of the air, and the mellow yellow of the sun.

But this September (all two days) has only been remarkable for the terrible headaches resulting from my persistent crying.

I wish it were last September. Even though I was living with a very dysfunctional roommate, I was happy. Epanoui, as Mr. Robertson put it. Work was brisk, I was surrounded by an army of crazy good friends, thoughts of the future made me feel tingly, and I had a sweet, gorgeous sexy boy who made me feel grounded and gorgeous and... epanoui. This September (all two days of it), I feel overwhelmed by doubt, distanced from my friends, completely not grounded, unattractive and undesirable and doomed to... well, something unsavoury.

My heart feels like a pile of withered ashes in my chest, I don't sleep in my bed anymore because I hate sleeping alone in that big room. Can you believe this? I am a walking, talking neurote. I have the best life a girl could have and yet, these thoughts have been running through my head non-stop for two days.

I'm not writing this to start an avalanche of reassurances. I'm not asking for your compliments, so please don't send any. Any other day and I would be the first to tell you how fantastic I am (because I am!). I'm writing this to let you all know that it's okay if you sometimes feel unreasonably horrible. It happens and you should just ride it out.

No feeling is final.

So exorcise your demons. Hide in a closet and scream out obscenities. Rip up magazines. Run so hard, so fast that your lungs burst out your chest. Write every shameful thought you've been entertaining in a blog for all the world to see. Get all that venom out. Because once it's out, the words look less powerful, less true, less painful.

If you've read this - consider yourself lucky. It's very probable that in a few hours, when I've realized just how ridiculous I'm being, that I'll delete this post and good.

ad xx