Post the Hundred-and-Nineteenth: In Which There Is An Epiphany

Gentle Reader, I’m afraid that I’m not doing at all well, today. More than just the ordinary mental merry-go-round. My departure date for Europe is in less than six months; there have been a few snags regarding sustainability, shelter, and so on. I had an epiphany this morning, while I was writing the Ex-Husband – this trip has brought me new life, happiness, a goal to work towards – in a word, hope. If I delay this journey in any way, I will quite frankly die of stagnation and depression, and I would succumb to all my habits and evils that I am currently valiantly wrestling against. If I want to live, I have to make this insane venture work.

This epiphany, however, is not the one in the title; it merely reminded me of it. After several glasses of wine, one winter, while I was in a similar suicidal slump, I attempted to cheer myself up with whimsy – sometimes this works, and sometimes it doesn’t. I donned a silver taffeta fantasy and my tiny crown, Theodore, and sent a photo out into the aether.

Epiphany1

The tiny crown wasn’t cutting it, and neither was the wine. I sank deeper and deeper in a widening mire. In the bathroom, I was suddenly harangued by my double in the mirror – he really laid into me. I fought back, of course, and there were some tears on both sides.

That’s when he told me he loved – that is, I told me that I loved myself. Flaws, failings, and all – for the first time in my entire life, I actually understood the concept of loving myself – and what’s more, liking the person the person I was, and was becoming, despite everything.

While I very much need the hand of hope held in front of me, I am sometimes able to draw comfort from this memory.

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About Ty DeLyte

Madame DeLyte has suffered a grave disappointment - YET AGAIN - and still believes that freedom, beauty, and truth are what's valuable, rather than vulgar cash. He'd add love to that list - but, well, what can he say about love?
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