as i read Jane Eyre again

i reach the part where mental illness is referenced as ¡lunacy! ¡depravity ¡madness! Brontë's writing consumes me, but in doing so soothes, for no longer is mental illness defined as lunacy, depravity, madness.

With rapid cycles, tomorrow will not matter

Tomorrow will be too late. It will have all passed then. I just hope I can make it through the rest of the day without incident. A call, a simple call. An ear to listen, a heart to understand. The trigger? Who knows. The music? The growing frustration?

It is difficult to understand, I know. And I know he says he does. I say sorry. I have always said sorry--probably more than needed--for this and other things. I am used to it. It does not matter. It has become part of my life, my routine. Despite what he says, I do not, I cannot fully believe he understands. I think he wants to see a wound, a physical sign of the damage. I sometimes wish that too. It would make it easy to explain, others would find it easy to understand.

Now I have the double burden of surviving this, and hiding it as well as I can. And despite all I say, and how hard I try, it weighs on me. How could it not? Yet I let him go, get off the phone, move on with his routine, because perhaps that is how he copes, that is all he can do. More than anything *tears welling in my eyes* I want to believe him when he says he understands. More than anything...

Yes, it will pass; it will pass as it always does, thank goodness for that *tears again.* I do not wish it to pass forever in the terminal sense of it, really I do not, but it sure would be nice to feel normal, level again.