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Whenever I remember the story of this great man, I breathe a sigh of relief that I am not alone in my chronic struggle with sadness. His happy ending makes me feel less pitiful and weak about my obsession with death. And I wonder if there may be hope for me even if I, like Lincoln, never stop battling the beast of melancholy.
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I am in isolation. I have great shame about my inadequacies and inability to connect. Some anger and resentment too. I am told to accept.
Therese J. Borchard speaks of hope in
Lincoln: An Oscar-Deserving Story of Hope. As an aside, I wonder if Borchard sees the irony of "His happy ending" and "her obsession with death"? Nonetheless, I too have not stopped battling.