Nothing makes any sense.
All of a sudden, I am filled with an enormously emptying sense of futility. Almost everything that I dedicated my life towards, gone; useless and pointless. All that seems left now is me and the boy, and part time at that. I don't know why this depresses me so much. There is much to be satisfied about, but somehow I can not seem to access any of it.
Time, time, time says everybody, as if that is any less cruel and absurd.
I fear that I may put too much pressure on Rhys, that my fathering of him will become too important to me. That must sound silly to some, the idea that parenting can be too important. I am concerned that with him being the only thing left that matters out of all of this that it will unnaturally strain what was just becoming much more natural for me.
There is no way to go but forward, I'm told. What I would normally do when filled with an emotion that I could not conquer would be to just push up against it, and to just keep pushing. Slowly, it would move on. I mean depression, a state that I am much more accustomed to managing. With futility, there is nothing there to push against, just more of it in all directions. Futility is resistant to resistance. It is not a good feeling, and nothing very good can come of it.
I made the mistake of discussing it with my brother last night. He and I do not share many views. His answer is in giving things over to God, a response to life's struggles that does not work for me. I am sure that he is praying for me. Even though I am not a believer I still like it when people tell me that they will pray for me. It seems mystical, that a person would dedicate their quiet attention to invoking the assistance of the universe on another's behalf. I do it all of the time, though don't consider it praying.
I worry too much. Then, to justify all of my worrying I'll give myself something real to worry about. I don't want to feel as if I am just wasting my time, so every now and then some of my inner concerns must grow tentacles and take flight.