I’ve started to write a dozen times. Draft after draft trying to document recent moments of love. Of faith. Of optimism.
But hope dissipates in this nightmare depression. It wastes away even with a full stomach. I am bankrupt of joy, insolvent of confidence, and mourning both.
If grief is what is happening, it has become overwhelming and unmanageable. The minutes I experience where life seems valuable—where I seem worthy of its value—are so fleeting I just can’t hang on.