Spring awakens with the dawn of a new day. A new day that I get up and try to feel for my existence. It doesn't come. I'm here but I am not. Twenty eight months. I've come a long way but yet not so far. My needs are small in comparison but simplistically impossible. I want to see your beautiful face. Your twinkling eyes. Your quirky smile.
The season has ended. Blossoms of purples and whites fill my sight. I pass through the fields of heather and look beyond the sea. A peacefulness settles in the misty dew surrounding my body and filling my senses. I am with someone. A beautiful feeling of pure and abundant love emanates sparkles of light that reach deep within my soul. It is my son. He reaches for my hand and helps me up.
My father died last week. He was 89. He had lived a full life. He had been a productive member of society by all accounts: four children, 9 grand children, 63-year marriage, retired to a beach community in Florida when he was 60, lived with his bride in his own house right up until the last few weeks. Yes, my father was a fortunate man. His entire family came for the funeral services.
Sometimes it was pitch black and sometimes it was an awesome day. Years of torment, endless cycles, treatment, over and over again. I suffer from manic-depressive disorder. Medication helps but I sometimes find myself feeling hopeless. My last suicide attempt landed me in front a psychiatrist who had treated hundreds like me. It was the result of many years of self help.