I am needing help on this gray Christmas Day. Benjy, low on Lexapro, is crashing. Depressed, irritable, anxious. And that makes me unbearably sad.
He is agitating for release from the hospital.
"I'm well!" he argues bitterly. His mood is as dark as it gets. "There is nothing wrong with me."
Such difficulty seeing, he has.
I need help, and so I am turning to Oscar Wilde. Not the ironic, snarky Oscar. Not the too-clever-by-half chap, although I love him too (favorite line: "I hear her hair has turned quite gold from grief!" -- from The Importance of Being Earnest).
No. I am turning to the Oscar Wilde who makes me cry over the potential for sheer goodness in people -- or in giants, at any rate.
I am about to read this.
(It's a good allegory for Christmas, by the way.)