If, at one time, we had enough love or desire or delusion to begin something in the first place, its ending is probably going to be anything but...
I am making peace with the unhappy ending.
The only sort there is. The real sort. It isn't a peace that is easy and dreamy and deep breaths that leave me feeling that all is right with the world.
It isn't easy. It sucks. I constantly feel like I have a crying hangover, even when I haven't been crying. And it is exhausting. The big, deep breaths are ragged and catch in my throat. But it's okay. I can tell that I'm still breathing.
I am taking the advice of someone who truly loves me, and I am reminding myself that the story is just the story. I am going for walks. And sitting. And living my life by a timer. Right now, set in fifteen minute intervals, because I can do anything for fifteen minutes, but in this current state, I know I can't do much more. Maybe next week I will be ready to move up to twenty minute intervals.
I may not like the ending of this chapter, but I am finally realizing that I can take back my pen.