I mean, it does, right? It's been over 10 years since I've written here, and today feels apropos.
I've had such a lovely life. My children are so wonderful, my partner so caring, my family so dear. I've been privileged inasmuch as I've had a healthy upbringing, good childhood, excellent education, and the theoretical possibility that I could do anything. Sitting here licking port wine cheese off of a butter knife seems like such a letdown to my life's promise.
Sure, I've overcome some shit and seen some shit and done some shit. My 10-year-old rescue dog still loves me Best of All Things and lets me hug him more than my children ever allow. I'm still here. More importantly, my oldest is Still. Here. I could have lost him, and I'm blessed not to have. But the struggles never end.
Today I was watching a video about how to make epi de ble, and instead of admiring the deft hands of the baker, I sobbed to watch his preteen son look at him so earnestly while learning how to imitate his father's movements, with his encouragement and pride. How did I fail to inspire my children? How have I never taught them anything skillful or useful or fun that left them rapt with attention and a desire to be just like me?
I know I've failed them thousands of ways - the microaggressions of parenting accumulating like papercuts. I don't know that all the good I've done for them will ever outweigh the burden of me, looming over them like the specter of depression that I am. I hope they can forgive me.
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