2.19.25
This morning a friend told me she was putting her 16-year-old dog down later in the day. His quality of life is not good, and he is suffering. She knows it’s for the best, I know it’s for the best, everyone knows it’s for the best. What’s best doesn’t always make sense to our hearts though. Grief doesn’t care that it’s for the best, it’s an emotional roller coaster punching us in the gut over and over again.
A few months ago, I had reached the point where I didn’t care if I lived or not. I wasn’t suicidal, I just didn’t give a shit if I ever woke up in the morning again. I was out of fucks to give. In my extremely successful attempt to numb myself to anything that could cause a painful emotional reaction, I had also managed to forget the beauty of life and everything I had to be grateful for.
One of the exercises we had in rehab early on was to write our own obituaries. I was not in a good place but remember thinking how cruel and morbid the exercise was. I sat at the table with a pencil and blank paper most of the group time because I was ashamed of what people would say in my obituary if I suddenly passed at that time. It probably would have said that it was for the best because my quality of life had gotten so bad, and I was suffering. It was one of the first alarm clocks going off for me. I ended up writing a short obituary in the last few minutes from the perspective I hope will be written about the better version of myself I am trying to become.
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