I was going to get my shit together in June.
It would have been six months since Everything and that’s enough time, right? Half a year to wallow and to feel sorry for myself and to punish myself and to be a sad little chubby seal on my sad little chubby seal-rock.
I mean, it would have been perfect, right? One month for each stage of grief PLUS one month just for chilling out?
(You already know this story.)
June came and went, July passed me by, and it is nearly the middle of August and I am still “falling asleep” to Law & Order re-runs on my phone while it is still light outside. September looms, and I am confident I will not have my shit together yet. I am adjusting dosages and eating entire pizzas and crying to Muppet songs and doing all the depressed stuff I need to do to get there one day, but it is taking longer than I want.
This journey has already been so fucking long, and I am desperate for some sort of checkpoint, you know?
June would have been nice. I imagined being quick on my feet, prolific in my writing, sound of mind and body and fucking soul.
Adjusted. Well. At peace.
In the criminal justice system…
Maybe October. Yeah. October would be nice.
(Side quest: Pumpkin stuff returns to Dunkin Donuts on Wednesday. I normally try to wait for actual fall for my pumpkin nonsense, but FUCK THIS FUCKING SUMMER I PUT IT IN MY CALENDAR LET’S GO PUMPKIN COFFEE.)
But I have a little bit of hope today and I want to tell you about it. I went on a nice walk with a nicer friend and finished with a nice bagel. (It’s always going to come back to friendship and carbs for me, you know that.)
It’s nearly 12:30 in the afternoon and I have walked my four miles, talked about dreams and Disney World, been daring enough to add MAYO to my bacon, egg, and cheese everything bagel (a game changer, btw), sort of did 10 minutes of gentle, stretchy yoga (my cat was in the way for most of it), showered, and am now sitting here in my freshly Swiffered, vanilla-scented bedroom.
And it is the rare afternoon when I feel like, “Huh. If this is all today, maybe that’s enough.” The rare afternoon when it feels like, “Huh. Maybe after this, I’ll go and read a book and that would be okay.”
(I miss books. I miss enjoying things.)
(Fuck): There’s no timeline for feeling better. There’s no clear cut path to self-forgiveness. It’s the sort of thing I always logically sort of knew and would certainly have told anyone else, but it has taken living through it to really understand it. I’m gonna get there when I fucking get there, I guess. I’m walking my marathon training and I feel like I’m crawling through my feeling better training. Crawling, plodding, stumbling, wobbling, whatever you want to call it.
But I am moving. Maybe I’m not getting in those hallowed 10,000 steps a day, but I’m moving.
Maybe one day again I’ll even dance.
Wouldn’t October be lovely?