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I've heard of writers being depressed for a while after finishing a novel. ‘Depressed’ sounds to me like a low-level downer. ‘Depressed’ sounds lovely compared to this emotional uproar, barely surpressed howling and puddle-on-the-floor crying jags. Compared to this cauldron full of roiling pain and suffering.
I didn’t immediately understand what happened to me but as soon as I did, I knew I had to act. (No ‘victim energy’ here, as my real live friend Cecily would say if I ever let on to her which I’m not likely to do because she’d start playing therapist on my head.)
The source and cause of my pitiful state, put succinctly, is that five people who have been with me for years and years, have all left my life at once, causing a total abandonment melt-down.
Yes, I know that I could commandeer all of them b…