#Melancholy Or, the story of the little bitch who loved me so much they wanted me to kill myself.

Melancholy wraps its ghostly gray arms around me and

Whispers in my ear

Hello friend. I’ve missed you! You’ve missed me too, haven’t you? Come lay with me. Yes, let fear and doubt and pain be your bedmates. They understand you. They have missed you too! Pick them up. Hug them. Stroke their tender black and absorb their love and desire for you.

What love?

Their love for you, of course! Come and fill yourself up with fear and doubt and pain. Your old friends. They have missed you; they did not like it when you let yourself love yourself. Let yourself love someone else.

But it felt wonderful, to feel love. To look in the mirror and not hate myself. To look in the mirror and see a soul open to peace and grace and kindness and acceptance of self. To not hate myself.

But you’re back, love. And your love for fear and doubt and pain goes back decades. To the time when you first put letters and words to feelings. And haven’t we always been here for you? Unlike all those you say love you, we Lovie, haven’t we been here for you?

No. No, Melancholy. You have always been here for you. You and pain and fear and doubt feed on broken damaged souls. You are not here for me, Melancholy. You are here for you. In my sadness and doubt, you enter, slowly at first, sidling up to me, touching softly my wounded heart. Promises.

These are not false promises. They are real. Pain and fear and doubt and melancholy are your family. We will never abandon you. You are one of us. You belong with us. And when it gets to be too much, and the mirror tells you that you are weak and riddled with defects and unlovable and ugly and stupid and ugly and ugly and ugly? We won’t care. Melancholy and fear and pain and doubt? We will still be here. Still be your family.

You are right, Melancholy. You have been here for me. You are familiar, and a soft place to land. You are comfortable and deceptively easy to come back to. You never reject me. You welcome my shattered little girl into your arms, holding me, wrapping me in sadness and dark and doubt and whisper to me You are right. You are nothing. You are not worth it. But Melancholy? I’ve seen the light. The light of my beacon; the one in the lighthouse that warns ships of dangerous shoals and Souls, telling me in its light, to steer away. To save myself by going towards the rougher water where safety awaits: where my oars are strong enough to paddle over and through the rough current. To turn aft and flee the safety of deceptive familiarity.

Stop this! Stop this now! Accept my warm tug and come back and be with me and pain and fear and doubt and dark and ugly! Only we can love you like you deserve to be loved. You don’t have to explain yourself. We KNOW you. We WANT you. We NEED you. Come. Home. NOW.

I’m sorry Melancholy. I cannot hear you now. The waves are too high and strong and I am headed for the darker water, where my own oars will carry me safely. I am sorry, Melancholy and pain and fear and doubt and dark and ugly, but I am breaking up with you. You were there for you. And now? I am here for me.

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