Hi, to all of my three readers.
Hey, how was 2020? (ba dum dum :shing:)
It’s been a dumpster fire of a year for the entire planet, and honestly, especially for those of us with an ounce of common sense and compassion living in the US. Zoom in the aerial view onto a county which, because of the local law enforcement’s, ah, unique approach to ‘law’ and ‘enforcement’ is regularly on the radar of the US Dept of Justice and the friggin’ FBI, and, well, you got yourself a special kind of delight. Toss in a couple health care crises *in addition to the global pandemic*, a major two household move, and a mental health breakdown and yeah. Whoo 2020, don’t let the door hit ya where the good Lord split ya.
In the middle of losing my mind and trying to find it again, I also lost the ability to write. And think.
I’ve never been more desperately hopeless and terrified in all my life.
Thanks to medication, therapy, good friends, good coffee, and good music, I’m reclaiming pieces of myself. Again. This is not my first rodeo, and I’m far too jaded to think it will be my last. I have a childhood friend who has recently written of her own journey from mental illness to mental health — and that’s how she describes it: a journey. Her story is entitled something along the lines of “darkness to light”. I’m sure it’s inspiring, and I’m thrilled for her, and for her family. Her story gives many — including myself — much hope.
The thing of it is, I’ve stopped looking for a start, or an end.
I have wanted to write about what goes on inside my head. (My heart? My soul? Wherever the weirdness lies. Lays?) I do know that waiting for the “right” time or spot is paralyzing to me, and always has been and will be — so it’s best if I don’t try. Besides, what is the right time to say things like, “hey, remember when I thought there were polar bears on the sidewalk in downtown Mebane? Good times”. I have never been able to process in a straight line — always in a spiral. Why would writing about a complex issue like mental health (or lack thereof) be any different?
Nothing exists in a vacuum and everything is connected. Grief is the only emotion I’ve ever been able to compartmentalize; everything else is hopelessly entangled in ways that I don’t even understand until I see it, sometimes, one thread woven through something seemingly unrelated, tangled and messy until you get to the point where suddenly, the intersect is clear, even if only for one or two stitches.
There are words, again, and thoughts.
And for that, and many other things, I am starting 2021 with a heart full of hope and gratitude.