Storms may ravage us, but we can rebuild.
It was the day after storm Doris and the air wass fresh, the sky blue, the birds were singing, and everything felt serene. If somebody had just arrived, they would have had no idea of the violence of yesterday’s weather.
That’s how I feel when a low has passed. The serenity, the calm, and the sense of hope that I can start building again. I can begin to put back together that which the wind has torn asunder. It might never be as it was, I might never be the same but I can rebuild, make something new, maybe something better.
When we are inside it, it feels like we won’t make it out alive. The meloncholy, the pain of a grief that you don’t understand the bewilderment of not wanting to feel this way but somehow feeling solace in the familiarity of it all. We don’t know when the wind will ease or if there is worse to come. The uncertainty is the worst part.
As the wind blows us this way and that, we feel we wont ever find peace. We are lost at sea.
When the winds drop, the rain stops and the skies clear, that is the moment to take control. Do it before the next storm comes. Start learning about the climate of your mind. Learn the signs before the next low comes. Learn how to build a sea wall, a stronger roof.
The trees that don’t blow down in then wind aren’t the strongest ones or the most steadfast but the ones that move with the wind, that let themselves be flexible. We have to be the same. If something isn’t working we need to find new ways to do it. We need to move with the wind of our circumstance.
If you can weather the storm, brighter days and better things will come. When you’re in it, it doesn’t feel that way. The eye of the storm is a dark, silent, lonely place. How could you believe it would ever end or improve? The truth is, you can’t. All you can do is keep fighting, keep moving forward with your head down, braced against the wind. I don’t mean keep going as if nothing is wrong. Ask for help, tell someone you aren’t okay. There is strength in numbers.