I don’t know what to do. I want the best for you. I know you are depressed. You know that I know that you’re depressed. What to do…what do you want? Is what you want what’s best? Is that my call, yours…someone else’s? Whose? I want to tell you I understand because I’ve struggled with mental health at times, too, but I don’t know how true this is. I don’t know if it matters. I don’t want to smother your story with mine.
Are you okay? That’s always my question, it probably gets old hearing. It’s instinctive for me to ask it.
Shalom–health and wholeness. It’s what we’re all seeking, right? How can I help you towards that? Can I? Should I?
I’m mothering you, sorry. My thoughts scream, “I can help.” But I’m doing nothing, crippled by my desire to do what’s best and not just something.
I wish this was a letter to one person, but it’s a letter to many. So many questions.