Sorrow

Chronic depression is a miasma, at times low, present but quiescent. Other times it threatens to drown one. Tangle that with anxiety and what a wicked duo. I reference this in relation to my friend who committed suicide and for myself and others who wade in chronic depression.

I struggle to find a place for myself when I don’t have that long-time friend and coworker in the shop next door. His absence is louder with his replacement marking space. It is not the replacement, who is a fine young man, that is the problem, but more when one has worked with someone for a long period of time one develops a rhythm and understanding, an ease to communicating and interacting. I find I miss that connection and sometimes shortcut filling new coworkers in on what had become understood.

I try not to reference my friend, he has been relegated to “your predecessor,” his name and history shortcut to avoid comparison or contrast with his replacement. That absence leaves a hole in me—I spent a good deal of time holding space for and talking with my friend as he struggled in his battle. I am at loose ends, and trying to find a way to be
whole—as I imagine many do when loss redefines their world.