When the Glimmers Return (Even Faintly)

Content notes: impermanence and struggle

About four hours ago, I posted about the glimmers dimming. About being in a massive drop. About everything being so fucking hard. (And I also was pushing out a lot of work at my job… :/ (and I’m really proud of my work!)

I'm more regulated now. Not fixed. Not suddenly okay. But regulated. (For those who track nervous systems like I do, I've moved from dorsal vagal shutdown back toward something more livable.)

Here's what happened: my friends showed up through text (and one in person). Not with solutions or toxic positivity, but with their own struggles and their presence. I consoled and listened (and empathetically cried with) another friend on the phone. Turns out a lot of people have been taking it hard. We've been checking in on each other all afternoon. Little and long texts. Voice messages. Memes. I spoke to my brother. Another just wrote "same" and somehow that helped.

I still have PTSD. I still have other conditions. I will still melt down. This afternoon doesn't erase this morning's therapy session or the weight of trauma I carry. It doesn't make it fair that I have to deal with so much personally while the world is also on fire. (It's not fair. It's really fucking not.)

To deny my emotions (valid emotions of grief, anger, and upset) is not a part of my healing journey anymore.

But my friends were there for me. And I was there for them.

What else can we do but take care of each other? (paraphrasing my friend who gave me a hug just a bit ago)

Monday, I wrote about binding wrists instead of breaking them. This afternoon, I wrote about the threads feeling too thin. This evening, I'm thinking maybe thin threads are still threads. Maybe they're stronger than they feel right now. Maybe it's not about individual threads at all, but (as I said two posts ago) about how we weave them together.

The glimmers didn't disappear. They just got harder to see for a while. They're still faint right now, but I can make them out: the friends, the fact that my landlord is actually going to write that Reddit post, and the reality that we're all struggling and still showing up for each other anyway.

I'm still planning my IUI. Still rattled. Still here.

My eyes are still swollen (I cried on and off all day…). I’ve been drinking tea, on the couch, under my blanket.

I do still love my life.

Sometimes recovery isn't about feeling better. Sometimes it's just about remembering that the drops don't last forever, even when they feel like they will. Sometimes it's about your friends reminding you that you've survived every previous drop, even when you couldn't remind yourself. Sometimes it’s yourself reminding you too… a previous therapist told me that it’s almost like a rational note to yourself that you leave behind.

The moon is still here. We're still here. We're taking care of each other.

That has to be enough for today, because it's all we have. And honestly? It's not nothing.