I am writing this post after a long discussion with my best friend who’s very sick. Pardon me if I sound neurotic.
How many times in my life did I say that I feel dead inside? Many
How many springtime’s have I passed in a seasonal depression? Too Much
As I sat with my friend tonight, who was suddenly diagnosed with brain cancer, I quickly reinforced my thinking that nothing, besides our love, our dreams, and our family, matters.
Sometimes the things we fret over in the name of love or family doesn’t really matter either.
So what, the living room’s dusty? We still have a lifetime to clean it and get it right.
So what, you hate your job? Doesn’t when push come to shove, we find another one?
So what, your daughter is diagnosed with ADHD? I spent my whole life fretting over it. I wasted a whole year in a serious depression over giving her meds. Had I not fretted over it, it wouldn’t be an excuse to my teenage daughter today. Her wonderful spirit would be a wonderful attribute opposed to a medical term.
I look at myself at thirty eight and quickly realize that I was once a sixteen year old girl with ADHD (that term wasn’t even invented at the time), ready live but instructed:
“not talk about your problems”
“to work even though you hate it”
“that money is the key to all happiness”
Oh to turn back time and be twenty again. I wouldn’t have fretted over half the things that I did. I would have lived life and done the things that I’m doing NOW. Taking the biggest frickin chances, making mistakes, giggling about them, and smiling at the end of the day.
She asked me tonight to document her journey. I was honoured. There is no bigger writing experience than this one. This is true and pure. This is what we all fear, but we hope that it happens at a later age than 39.