make no bones about it— or better yet, make bones
Sometimes, I stress myself out so much I think I might throw up. It's an unkind thing to do to my body, but I do it anyway. It's an impulse to worry, to struggle through every triviality, to lose sleep over the future and the past and the present in between. And it's strange, because I consider myself to be kind (I've been told I am kind by people I trust, so it must be true, right?). But anxiety is so inherently unkind. It damages my body and my brain until it's all I can think about. That kind of all-encompassing dread leaves no energy left for happiness or patience or peace. It makes me bitter. It is an impulse, or at least it was until it became an instinct, to worry to the point of destruction.
I try to tell myself to let go. I make art and make bones about healing and moving forward and burying things in the ground or throwing them out the car window. And that works for a while. And I wait for the sunny days to tell myself it will all get better, and wasn't I so silly for being depressed all winter, knowing spring was just around the corner? But the thing about this kind of thinking is that it's temporary. Cloudy days are always a possibility.
I struggle to find a permanent solution. I wonder if I ever will.
Make no bones about it—
or better yet, make bones:
sandborne, sun-bleached, bald-faced bones
naked but for a Southwest sky.
The word “skeleton” meant “home.”
He will not follow you there. You return alone
Georgia O’Keeffe, “From the Faraway, Nearby,” 1937 by Camille Carter