I’m pretty sure Dead Poets’ Society is the reason my parents let me major in Theatre in college, which is one of the best things I’ve ever done for myself.
Thanks, Universe. And thank you, Robin Williams.
It. Has. Been. A. Rough. Year.
Potentially the roughest. My fiance got a new and super stressful job. To accommodate this, I, almost single-handedly moved us to a new apartment where I could walk to work and his commute would not be so god awful. Because we only have one car, so one of us needed to be able to get to work sans vehicle. So, since October, I have been living in the Los Angeles metro area without regular access to a car. Which is doable, but not easy. I have not wanted to admit that not having a car is hard because: the environment! white privilege! car culture is awful! BUT IT IS. Living and working in Sherman Oaks and planning a wedding in Fresno without regular access to a car is super hard. It sucked balls. It still sucks balls.
Then I got a promotion. And we continued to plan our wedding. Except my fiance (now husband) had to stop planning because of his job. But he couldn’t bring himself to say that. Which is fair, because who doesn’t have a hard time admitting their own limitations? So then I pick up his slack, but I had no car to do it with and I was overwhelmed with the moving and work and my own part of the wedding planning and freaking out because my mom was sick and by the time we got to the wedding I just wanted it to be done. More than anything, I just wanted to survive that day.
And now that I have, I realize that it’s pretty crappy to look back at your wedding day as a day that was “survived.” But it’s no one’s fault - life happens, you know? And a lot of brides wind up feeling this way, I bet. Yet, it’s still somehow very, very disappointing. I still have stress dreams about how awful my hair looked that day and the umbrellas not arriving and the rain and the family members who pouted and mostly just the sheer exhaustion and the physical pain of the sleep deprivation and anxiety that was deep in each and every muscle.
I thought life would get easier after the wedding. I really did! But now I’ve gotten another promotion (which is great! but also stressful) and we’ve gotten a dog and work is still stressful for my husband. I haven’t been to a doctor in over a year and my psychiatrist’s receptionist yelled at me this week and I almost didn’t have a highly addictive medication the doctor has me on and I realize that I am completely falling apart. I am not okay.
I got the medicine, everything will be fine, but it’s finally hit me. Having to come up with a last minute solution to needing medication on my own because my partner is so stressed and in over his head in his life and I prioritized a million other things before my own health in my life is a real eye-opener to how little we’re taking care of ourselves and each other.
And suddenly I’m seeing all these things on the internet that I’m missing: book signings and plays and a thousand other things I wanted to attend to celebrate other people. Books I want to read, movies I want to see, friends I want to get to know better, parties I missed … and I, really, the life I want to be but am not living. Instead I’ve missed work for two days because of all the crying and medication stressing and figuring out what the hell I’m going to do. When did this become my life and how do I change it?
I’m just ready to be done talking about how hard this year was and am ready to be living my best life and to stop missing all the things. I guess I have to put my scattered, stressed out self back together one piece at a time and move on from there. Next week I’m back in therapy and I plan on getting a massage this weekend and I’m budgeting for a car, but oh my word, I’d kill for a fairy godmother to come and Bibidee Bobbity Boo my life back together. Not even back to where it was, just to a place where my muscles are not constantly on fire from the anxious tension consuming my body and I can sleep like a normal person and don’t break out into tears because some basic receptionist in a psychiatric office in Beverly Hills yelled at me for something I didn’t even say.
BEYONCE, COME BE MY FAIRY GODMOTHER. STRIKE DOWN THESE BASIC BITCHES AND CLOTHE ME IN A HIGH-END GOWN AND SOME GLASS SLIPPERS SO I CAN RULE MY WORLD.
This is my wish. Thank you.