The last day before life as I knew it ended.
Not this year. Nope. I would most definitely not have my shit together this well (hahahahaha, like I have it together well at all) if it was this year. It's been five now. FIVE YEARS.
This is the last of the days that will (or should) suck an entire bag of dicks on this year of five year anniversaries. Well, more correctly I suppose it is the day before the last day.
It's weird, this time thing. Days like this one, it seems like five years ago was in an entirely different lifetime that belonged to someone else a few generations ago, like it's part of my family folklore but didn't happen to me personally. Out there, distant, disconnected, recollected but not really lived. I peruse the images from the thing that happened forever ago as though they are in some book somewhere. Over there.
But then on the other hand it's like it is right now all over again and it's just happening now and I'm feeling my grip on sanity loosen and it's all slipping away no matter how hard I try to hang on, that I can feel the anxiety tightening in my chest and I have to focus just so that I remember to breathe. In and out. In and out. In and out.
It's weird how those two things can happen at exactly the same time, and I don't have any fancy scientific explanation for why it is the way it is. Just that it is. It probably has something to do with my semi-recovery from PTSD and acceptance of the fact that it never really goes all the way away. And if you know then you know and if you don't know, then you should consider yourself really fucking lucky.
I'm hiding in the front room of the house so that I can write this because the baby is in that stage where he wants all my attention all the damn time and will start throwing shit to get it. He'll slam things down on the keyboard if I even think about trying to write. He'll rip my phone out of my hands with his little tiny baby hand death grip and chuck it across the room. If I'm out of his line of sight, he's perfectly content to put the same two LEGO bricks together and take them apart 174 times in a row, but if he can see me, all bets are off.
(oh, and before any of the sanctimommies start in here, they are the duplo blocks and his siblings are in the room and he doesn't put anything he can't eat in his mouth already because he's figured out that anything that isn't edible isn't worth it which is why he's a human tank and I can see him he just can't see me so there)
You know, writing is a hell of a lot less fun when you live in a world where people will literally ignore everything else you write, decide that they know all about your fucking life and deem you a danger to your children, then threaten to turn you in to the authorities over shit they read online that one time.
Anyway, this shitty milestone is almost here, which is a complete relief in an entirely bizarre way. I'm far enough away from the actual events now that I can give myself some leeway intentionally so that I don't head down the rabbit hole and fuck up half of the summer by becoming a basket case recluse who doesn't shower except to wash off and then reapply all the black eyeliner in the house. Because that could totally happen. Strike that. Has happened.
Now, knowing my body's propensity to remember the awful days on the calendar even if I'm not actually paying attention to them, I plan ahead. I give myself designated days for this shit.
No, for real.
That's a thing.
I build little emotional breakdown buffers in my year. On purpose.
Like, here self.
"HERE IS A DAY TO LOSE YOUR
SHIT BUT GET IT OVER
WITH BECAUSE WE HAVE
FUCKING PLANS TOMORROW."
I try not to schedule much for the day before (today) or the day after but sometimes shit is just beyond my control and so I have to be even more efficient with my
Tomorrow, I have to go to work and stand in front of a bar full of people (one of which is a raging asshat on occasion) and do my job so I need to get this shit over with right quick.
Is there anyone else out there who does this?
I have questions.
Like, am I just a diligent genius who learned in therapy to make sure that I allow myself days for all the fucked up feelings about shit that has happened in my life or am I certifiably insane for pre-scheduling my mental breakdowns???
Maybe don't answer that.
Maybe that isn't what my therapist meant at all and maybe I'm a terrible listener who can't follow simple fucking instructions.
I don't know.
I just know that this works for me, so give me some space while I eat my feelings and cry in the shower today because we have shit to do tomorrow.