Fuck I’m walking downtown and I pass a group of guys staring at me and I think “great catcall time” but then one guy goes “you look like you could kill a man a million different ways with just your bare hands”. This. This is an acceptable comment to give a girl on the street.
“I wrote this story for you, but when I began it I had not realized that girls grow quicker than books. As a result you are already too old for fairy tales, and by the time it is printed and bound you will be older still. But some day you will be old enough to start reading fairy tales again. You can then take it down from some upper shelf, dust it, and tell me what you think of it. I shall probably be too deaf to hear, and too old to understand a word you say, but I shall still be your affectionate Godfather, C. S. Lewis.”
In my family, among my breed of people, wanting to rid the world of yourself is not unusual. It’s like having blue eyes, as all of us do. We are built to live with and in spite of it. I remember as a teenager having conversations with my mother at the kitchen table where we would promise each other one more year. No crying, no dramatics, just a measured conversation like you have when you strike any other kind of deal. I will stay for you if you will stay for me. Then promise again, the next year, and the next. We don’t have those conversations anymore, because it goes without saying, now.
A friend said this to me tonight, someone I really care about, and it made me think about all of this directly for the first time in a while. Someone would like to know me when I am old. I could take that for granted, but I don’t.
I thought about this again tonight after the Robin Williams news broke. My life as a depressed person almost feels like it happened to someone else. I wish to god everyone were so lucky.