It's been four years.
Four years of an under-the-surface feeling of hopelessness. Even in the joyful moments, my under-the-surface simmered with pain.
Incredible things happened in those years: my babies grew into children. My husband and I figured out how to once-and-for-all drop the bullshit and live in love together. You found my words and told me to keep writing.
Magical things, all.
Two months ago I stopped taking Prozac. I knew that it was time, having started to feel numb instead of even. I knew that stopping the pills would bring on a torrent of feelings, feelings that had been too much the year before, feelings I wasn't ready for last September when I decided to start my Prozac experiment.
And I knew that feeling these feelings was the key to my freedom, that if I was ever going to get to the other side - as elusive as the other side felt - I needed to feel everything.
The feelings came, of course. I spent time weeping a puddle of salty tears onto my kitchen floor. I spent time in breath sessions sobbing so hard I could barely breathe, working it out from the bottom up. After each of these - the many others I've experienced in the past two months - my feeling afterward wasn't one of hopelessness, but instead one of relief.
Something had come unblocked.
Something was new again.
Yesterday, my head popped up and out of the water. The simmering stopped. The hopelessness was gone.
After four years of trying and stopping and trying and stopping again, after four years of not knowing which way to go and surrendering, finally, to the power of feeling, however uncomfortable it got, I emerged.
I'd truly come to believe that under-water-simmering - that a general sense of hopelessness - was just the way things were, that they'd be that way forever, that I'd never know anything else.
And yet despite that belief, I kept feeling. I just kept feeling and feeling and feeling.
And to my great surprise and delight, that brought me to the other side.
So, hi. It's nice to see you. I'm really, really glad you're here.