I am a fucking mess. I have mental breakdowns on a weekly basis; I often forget to take my meds several days in a row; I basically can’t handle normal human interaction like telephone calls or just, you know, having people see me; it takes me well over an hour just to get out the front door, even after I’ve finished getting ready, even if I’m going somewhere I want to go; I don’t trust a lot of what comes out of my head; I often prefer to spend my time inside, on the internet listening to Rammstien or Apocalyptica or t.A.T.u. while I lament the fact that Kevin McKidd will probably be too old to play Jules deTania when/if Bellica ever becomes an HBO show, because this is obviously a bigger deal than fixing the multitude problems in my life.
And yet and yet and yet — yet people say that I’ve helped them. People tell me what I write helps them. People tell me that what I say — the words I cannot, myself, trust — helps them. I have something to offer to folks who are somewhat lost, even though I feel like no one can be as lost as I am.
And so perhaps there is something to the idea of the wounded healer. I am profoundly fucked up and yet I am able to offer something to folks who are only slightly fucked up, or possibly more fucked up, or maybe just as fucked up as I am.
Somehow, by being mired in my own darkness, I am able to fashion a light for others to see by. Somehow, by spending so long in the underworld of my own depression and anxiety, I am able to help people regain their footing on their own long, dangerous climbs out, back to the world of the living.
Is it the redecorating I’ve done? Have I actually gained some of my own footing? Or is this where I stay — a guide to others, but never leaving the underworld myself?
Does it matter?
I’ve helped people. And I pray and hope that I can continue to do so.
Even if a single phone call can make me a sobbing mess on the floor of my kitchen, screaming SET PHASERS TO LOVE ME.