Last Saturday was my wedding anniversary. I spoke of it to no one. How did I feel about it; I’m not quite sure. Ashamed that I’ve lost touch with her family, as they hold the recording of the ceremony, and though I have some photos, I have no idea where my vows are tucked away, but I remember feeling proud about writing and delivering them.
My calendar is literally filled with anniversaries or birthdays, all reminders of the past/present/future, and I have my routines to minimize feelings for those days, but I never come out quite right the following day(s), and now that I’m starting straight with a care team (and physical therapy), I’m not left with much time to process all of everything. Sure, there’s the “hurry up and wait” aspect (learned long ago in NYC and solidified in Silicon Valley) that I can’t shake that is really running the show and throwing me off balance, but what did I expect?
I was nowhere near thriving, let alone “getting by,” back when I lived in Oakland, but I knew my schedule and the routine and I was in control of everything. Cities can help with that: the ability to walk to where you need to be and not be in need of owning a vehicle. That, coupled with the ability to more or less set my own “schedule” based on my feelings and emotions, made it feel alright (so say I wasn’t up to walk to the grocery at a given time, I was able to just find a time when I was ready—everything revolved around my emotions).
My dad turned 75 this week, and I did nothing beyond pondering when my relationship with my only living parent spoiled. I’m not certain I’ll live that long, so maybe I can find some reprieve in that he has had a full life already. It pains me to know that he doesn’t wish to buried next to my Mom (which is problematic at best), but I have to let go and realize it’s his decision, just as I decided to move from the East Coast to the West, the furthest I’ve been away from my family, right as I was more outwardly showing signs of mental illness (moving across the country with no where to live and no job, with my carry-on being a cat and only a small amount of clothing should say plenty about my mental state).
I’d like to think that my writing is more upbeat than my mood, but in general, I know that anything I position in the outer realms has its own belonging: sad story, mixed with a more upbeat spin, never capturing the true highs or lows. I really won’t know until a day or two later. I’ve gotten better at awareness, but it’s not in the moment quite yet, and who says it will ever be. In the meantime, I throw out apologies sometimes in the future and hope that it’s understood.
I’ve spent so much time in DBT classes, but have only walked away with the knowledge that there’s help for me somewhere, and I can travel back in time and find those skills and somewhat remember them.
At least there’s help for me in some form moving forward.