Last night a friend texted me. She’s the kind of friend who composes lengthy missives describing what’s going on in her life. We don’t text every day, but when we have time. Or when we remember. Sometimes a week or two pass before one of us responds to the other’s most recent texts. Which is fine, because when we do text, we are thorough. She’s a much better writer than I, but I often reciprocate in length and efforts at thoughtfulness when I reply to her.
When I received a series of long texts from this friend last night, she asked how my June was doing, and that it took a long time before a certain difficult month for her became significantly less difficult.
That’s when it hit me.
My erratic sleep. My lack of motivation. My blanking out a lot of the time. My distraction.
I replied that she just might have gotten to the bottom of my depressive behavior.
My subconscious self still seems to be grieving.
Coming off that very first day of June–our wedding anniversary but also that extremely mournful day in 2019–a lot goes on this month that trigger layers of different feelings.
That’s the main cause, and that’s what makes the most sense. I generally love summer. The heat. The sunshine. All the quality time with loved ones. But June this year feels off. I don’t know if I’ve processed things enough, or if I have guilt from not moving on or moving on too quickly. Or that I have grief appropriation: she wasn’t my mom, but my feelings somehow can’t compare to Carla’s actual relatives.
And I know I shouldn’t be comparing feelings. And I have feelings about that.
Anyway, I guess sadness waxes and wanes, and this month in particular is waxy. And has a high pollen content.
I’m so exhausted.