It’s one of those evenings where the thought dust storm rages on across the plain. Things are unsettled. I keep thinking about my past, and all the good or bad times there were. I have such distinctly happy memories, and others that are like mind poison every time I go there. Things that are dead now and nothing will ever come of them again. Moments of trauma, the pain and anguish of those jagged seconds. I wonder how my exes survived, because I barely did. My suffering was severe, and real, and no less vibrant in my head. 

Time is the only remedy, and it winds on and on with seemingly no indication of improvement. They dim slowly, and eventually they are much less, and not nearly as painful. I don’t delude myself into thinking that they will ever be gone, or not hurt at all. They always will. Just like my responsibility to them: I am bound to recall what transpired to get me to that place, and observe how not to end up there again. Don’t I owe myself that? After all the shit I’ve pulled, I should at least learn from my mistakes. 

I’m learning all about patience, and strength. I was never particularly patient or strong, but I know that survival in this world is bound to one’s ability to adapt. Overall, I’d say that I wanted to not only survive but thrive. I had many years to take in what I could, but I really didn’t “get it” until much later. I saw what happened when things were rushed, they just fell apart later. I saw that mania is not strength, and that anything built on madness will fail. I learned to think, and not to act. I exercised patience with my very thoughts, helping give them space to breathe and be understood. From that foundation came strength. 

Even though I’ve done all this work, I still break down like every other mentally ill person. I get in a hole and it becomes difficult to see a way out of it. Here I am waist deep in the mud, looking around for something to grab on to. This is to be expected. 

Tomorrow is a new chance. I look forward to it.