Detour? Fuck that.

A year is a long time. It passes within the blink of an eye, and when you get to be 50 years old, with lightning-speed. And yet, if you take the time to break it down into months; disassemble the days; a year can encompass many, many things. Significant events, milestones, important moments only identified as such in hindsight, and of course, a great many fuck-ups and fuck-offs and – if you’re like me – outbursts of incredulous “Fuck me“s.

When we are children, a single year passes slowly, and I’ve never been able to figure out why that is. I’ve given up wondering, except to recall with wistful envy endless summers spent outside in the hot sun, the rare “fun event” that YES, lasted all day, and holidays jam-packed with food, fun, family, and my head falling onto my pillow at the end of the day, exhausted but content. When you’re an adult, some of the magic of time just drifts away. It’s probably because adults make the plans and bog down in the details. Kids just experience. Adults create.

I’ve been taking a little time to disassemble the past year for myself, and reading this blog has helped. I began writing again, just over a year ago, because I needed to. Writing, for me, is as effortless as breathing. I do it out of a necessity. It saved me when I was a child and it saves me now that I am doing this adulting thing. It has enabled me to continue to do the adulting thing during times when the low time was so low, I could not see daylight above me. I’ve written in fits and starts, but when I began this “very serious blog” it was to help empower others who suffer from anything that makes it difficult for them to make it through a day. Physical pain or challenge, mental illness, plain old life shit. I vowed to expose myself and my hills and valleys with blatant, raw honesty. I knew that it could help someone, somewhere. I’m seriously fucked up and I own that now. I am not ashamed to say that mental illness has roosted in the dusty rafters in my dark attic of consciousness all of my life. At times, it flies around wildly, knocking things over, igniting fires that threaten my life. That hasn’t happened in a couple of years, but I have the benefit of clarity, truth, and enough drugs to recognize that the albatross is restless again and threatening to come down from its sleep-perch to pull me down with its incredible weight.

I am disappointed in myself for allowing inauthentic, disingenuous things to block me from continuing with this blog and carrying out its purpose. When I began, I had a plan, and it was a GOOD one. It felt real, and attainable, and true. And then Voldemort happened, and I ended up in another dungeon of my own creation. This was not how it was supposed to go. Remember, my lovely, patient readers, when I vowed that I was never going to drink the koolaid? Well, put alcohol on front of an alcoholic enough times and sooner or later, they’ll probably have a weak moment and take a sip. I took a sip, and because I was thirsty, it tasted good. Just like that, I toppled down the rabbit hole. I knew I was falling, and every now and then, I would catch myself and find some solid ground. A couple of months ago, I was on solid ground for a second, and had a blindingly bright moment of truth come to me.


And then I fell again. This time, down some real stairs. Broken toe, sprained ankle and foot. And I had a few days to lay, immobile, and think. And thinking is good, and it is bad, and it is dangerous, but thinking is also an implement of truth which allows for courage.  I laid aside my self-doubt (because I am so fucking sick of that bitch and her whining) and went to my touchstone: my husband. I talked, he listened, and he affirmed everything I was thinking. See, without him, I don’t  do so good. I stumble around when I’m low and I let the bird chase me and beat me with its wings. When I shut him out, life becomes harder than it needs to be. Don’t get me wrong – I do not tie my complete existence to this human – but I recognize that he gets the trains moving on schedule and we are a team in this life. He’s still here with my crazy ass because he may be well be crazy himself, but I’ll be damned: he loves me. And he heard me, and that was the antidote to the poison that had been slowly permeating all the soft tissue of my body. It never reached my heart, it never ate into my bones, and the fog in my brain cleared.

I’m writing again, friends. And I’m continuing with the journey I started when I wrote the first entry in this blog. I have found the last horcruxe, and I am going to smash it to bits. The map took me a little out of the way, but I’ve found the road again and I ‘m firmly on it. No detours, no tricks. I  may be crazy,  but I am going to be happy and crazy.

Oh, you bet your ass.