It starts in mid-May. I get moody, snappish. Kate asks “Are you mad at me?” No, I’m not mad at you. And yes I am, but only because I’m mad at everyone. It’s been over 40 years since that terrible day in June when my brother John died by suicide, three days before my 14th birthday. And nearly 30 years since my beloved sister Barbara died, also by suicide, in July. So summer kind of sucks.
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A writer friend told me I was brave for publishing my writing. She said she could never do that, it was too scary. What if nobody liked what she wrote? What if people judged her?
I could relate. That’s how I used to feel, and still do sometimes, though not so often anymore.
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Thirty three years ago the world lost a brilliant writer, mathematician, linguist, and social justice champion.
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I’m so grateful for therapy. These days I can almost immediately identify when something from the past is muddying up the emotional waters, and clear it out so I can be present to what’s happening now.
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A poem about being enough.
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