Brushing it off and saying “it’s just one of those days” is a disservice to yourself. It’s a cheat out of giving yourself permission to experience real pain, real emotions, real sadness. Whether or not you understand where it’s coming from doesn’t necessarily matter- and it doesn’t make it any less.
In my favourite book The Virgin Suicides, after a first attempt at death, young Cecilia is asked post-slitting-of-the-wrists “What are you doing here, honey? You’re not even old enough to know how bad life gets.”
Her response, “Obviously, Doctor, you’ve never been a thirteen year old girl.”
Over the past few months I have been working my little caboose off towards something I am extremely, legitimately excited for. It seems that time and effort has paid off.