You are in the middle of all sorts of things that don’t belong in now. You have guilt and shame from fifteen years ago; you have bittersweet hopeless wistfulness from last year; you have worry and false selflessness from next February. They have all chosen this week to float up to the surface. You are allowed to have all of them, and, frustrating as it is to have them in your head, it makes sense that they are here now. You are allowed to find it frustrating. You are allowed to want to cry.
Everyone you think you have hurt seems to have forgiven you; forgiven you long before you worked out how badly you’d hurt them, too. I forgive you; I am the last one. You may let go of it all.
You are getting better all the time.
You are very tired. You can go to bed now, and tomorrow is yours, with all the things to do or not.
This is as long as I can bear to make this note, and that’s allowed, too.