I’ve always been a sensitive person; crying at commercials, emotional, full of my own feelings with room to carry others, too. In the last year, though, my cup o’sadness has been overflowing.

My dad died, and so did my emotional capacity. There was no room for other sad shit, nothing that cut too deep, no space for things that made me wallow in my deep well of emotion.

Surface level stuff was the best I could handle – yes, no, let’s ride it out. This has been protective in a lot of ways, and in my recent self-reflection, I wonder if it’s been detrimental in some ways, too.

In the months after my fathers death I ended my long term relationship, living alone for the first time, ever.

I reached peak burn out at a job I had loved for a long while.
I had a whirlwind summer romance.
I drank entirely too much tequila.

I quit the job.
I decorated an apartment for just me.
I took another job that was a mess.
I started a private practice.
I withdrew my PhD program application.

Most of these things were valid, I know that. I can identify a lot of the “why” when I think about them.

The most detrimental thing is, I guess, not knowing what was what.

Was I making decisions? Choosing what was best for me, what felt good and made sense? Or was I skating … just skimming the surface of things and sorting them so they could move to a complete pile.

I still don’t know.

I spent months after my last birthday unable to focus, unable to engage in anything that required my sustained attention. I couldn’t force myself to do anything, exhausted all the time, losing my train of thought. More weight gain, less movement. A lot of lazy couching and subsequent body aches.

A little more therapy, an intake with a psychiatrist, talk of depressive episodes, a new medication and it finally feels like the sun is coming up again. It’s not likely to dry all my tears, but hopefully it will shine on the bright spots and keep the good things growing.