Today, it is raining Persians and Poodles. The sky is meaner and darker than a Taylor Swift Evermore video. The trees look brown and bitter, like little old mummy mouths that just tried to bite into a rotten persimmon. Cold rain stings. I know this because I didn’t choose this dog life. This dog life, as they say, chose me. And, dogs like to run their business outdoors with me in tow. But, yesterday was beautiful. Yesterday, I went on a walk with my funky little trio: my mom, my husband, and me. The sun was mostly behind the clouds, sneaky pete-ing us the entire way. We talked about the people who live and have lived in the houses. We talked about all manners of flora and fauna. We talked about the seasons and the reasons and the love and the loss, all while negotiating the steep ditches and well creased street divots you can only get from a really old neighborhood. “I love this neighborhood,” I blurted out suddenly. “Me, too,” said my husband. “Me, too,” said my mom. Then, in an unexpected and unprecedented show of spontaneity, I blurted out something else. “I love this life.” Will wonders never cease?
My road to pleasantness is a miracle. See, I tried to get lost on purpose. I drove too fast. I ran through barbed wire fences. I purposefully ripped off my bumper, wrapped some trees, and hit a few mailboxes. I was reckless with my life. I’ve spent a considerable amount of time in reflection this year. We all have, I guess. I hope. This year has to have meant something, right? I’ve focused on the trauma of my childhood and the wake that left in the lake of my soul. I learned that trauma is a part of all of us. Some of us have shocking trauma that takes professional help to recover from. Some of us have self-induced trauma, but trauma nonetheless. Some of us have trauma that we’ve painstakingly laundered and press and folded with fresh sprigs of lavender, before placing it in our internal armoire, only to realize it still stunk. Trauma is normal. This year, however, I learned that my armoire had a hole in the corner. Little mice have chewed and nibbled on my trauma vestments. They made little lavender scented nests of my hard work. Skeletons don’t stay in closets. Time comes for us all. So, this year, I drug all my trauma out in the open. I screamed it into pillows and wrote it into journals and wept it into my husband’s shoulder. I tell you this, not as a request for pity, but as a triumphant example of what a person can do when you choose to stand on top of your mental roof and scream to the masses, “I have been the best and the absolute worst. I have damaged my children. I have hurt people. I have been a sucky daughter and a worse friend. I have wasted my time and talents to the point that I don’t deserve them. But, I have opened my eyes every day and have done my best to survive. I hereby forgive myself. I see little 10 year old me, scared and sad, hiding in her room in my mind. I proclaim her lovely, and plan on hugging her through this life from this day on.”
We’re in the page flipping season now. Winter comes. We take our short days and our nights that start in the afternoon and we figure out what next year should be. I pray that 2021 will be softer, nicer. I pray our theories are deeply rooted in therapies and not conspiracies. I pray we reach out for the hand of the person who sees a blue sky as red and declare it purple. I pray we forge a new world using only the best parts of all of us. And, since I know too well the angst this season can bring to many of us, I pray that you read these words today and know your potential. If you’re driving your life’s buggy too near a cliff right now, know that good things can happen, even in a season of loss. I come to you from the edge of the very cliff you’re skirting. If your child or your parent or your spouse or your best friend is suddenly gone, you can look up one day and say that you love your life. If you’re sick and unsure of your own survival, you can look up one day and say that you love your life. If you’re practically bankrupt and aren’t sure where you’ll be living soon, you can look up one day and say that you love your life. If you’re spiritually lost to the point that nothing seems real or meaningful or worth the massive effort it may take, you can look up one day and say that you love your life. If you have nowhere to turn and the faucet to your tears is leaking like a sieve, you can still look up one day and say that you love your life. And, guess what? You will mean it. Unpack your trauma. Look at it one last time. Give it the audience it craves. Scream its truth into a pillow. Write it in a journal. Cry it on a shoulder. Then, let it go. Grab 10 year old you and whisper sweet nothings into your own ear. It gets better. I know this much is true.
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