Reservation for Pity, party of one.

 GODDAMN, but I hate pity parties. Especially when it is mine.  Why is a summertime bout of depression so much harder to manage than in the autumn or winter? Is it because these other seasons lend themselves to melancholy, comfy sweaters, and staring broodily out across grey landscape? 

I don't want to marry a lighthouse keeper. I am the lighthouse keeper.  And yet, some days, I am so sad to be waking up to the extra few feet in my bed, without a person. Such are the mysteries of our own hearts. 

Aunt Victoria reminds me with gentle consistence that I am my own cake. 

*Heavs a dramatic sign and cues up sad songs, has a good cry, then chooses to surround herself with people who are honest and the life she loves.  And maybe she stops to daydream just a bit the next time she'll fall that little bit it in love.

I've been having to sit with myself, in my angst, sadness, agonizing insecurity, mis-apportioned responsibility, they all have seats at this table, which has always been dream-goal of mine: a crowded table.