On endings and beginnings

For some reason I can't really explain, I stumbled across this blog after more than a year of inattention. It was kind of weird re-reading it all with that kind of distance, that far removed; it was kind of like reading the novelization of a movie I'd watched about a dozen times. The memories--and all of the feelings--came flooding back. I remembered feeling resentful of my parents, I remembered that tumultuous love(ish) affair with Hot Mess, I remembered the worry and panic over my mental health and my future sanity--and I remembered them vividly. But rather than going there again and sinking back into that emotional minefield, I just kind of felt sorry for her, for this woman I knew so well who was going through so much pain. I wanted to tell her that I knew exactly what she was going through, that I'd been there myself and that it was miserable but I came out fine.

And I did. My neglect of Crazazy Chronicles isn't because anything horrible has happened--or, for that matter, because anything wonderful has happened--but because normal is happening. I can't say normal has happened, because I've come to understand that normal is a process, not an event. But some things in my life are settling to the point of being normal, and some things are spectacularly and wonderfully abnormal. And some things suck, frankly, but suck is frequently just another part of normal. And whether or not my normal would in any way resemble some "normal" person's normal, I don't know (I seriously doubt it), but it's working for me.

My normal:

New Guy is still in the picture, although I suppose at this point he's been around long enough to just be The Guy. He and I recently celebrated the second anniversary of that first date that I was so entertained to revisit upon re-reading this tonight. We're currently living in glorious sin and preparing to buy a house together at the end of the month. And we have a dog. In a spectacularly unexpected turn, The Guy accepts me exactly as I am, in a way I thought only existed in trite movies. It's strange how I was able to learn to accept myself because of that. It helps that he's his own personal brand of whacko, which I also love and accept. And my concerns that he would never try to break up the quiet of a room by whacking me with a pillow were completely unfounded. I've never been so happy with another person in my life. I think it's because I've also never been so happy with myself in my life. Chicken, egg.

Unfortunately, my job has been on a downward suck spiral since last I wrote, but I'm facing things with a stiff upper lip and maintaining a side project that is both inspiring and rewarding and will, I hope, eventually become sufficiently lucrative that I can blow my current popstand of employment. My relationship with my family has regained its warmth, although there's that little bit of closeness that was lost in the initial chaos of my diagnosis. A lot of it comes down to trust, I think, and trust once lost can be hard to regain. But there's a lot of love, and that goes a long way. The future there is bright.

And I know you're wondering about Hot Mess. He remains hot and ever-less messy. He's all the way across the country, not playing poker but working and going to college. He's got an apartment in a kicky, not-yet-trendy part of town and a ridiculously smart girlfriend (initial news of which gave me just the tiniest stab of jealousy, but honestly, I'm happy for him). We still write occasionally, but not that much. Certainly nothing compared to our epic text messages of yore. But that's to be expected--we were each others' support during some really hard times, and we helped each other grow, and now we're grown and supporting ourselves. Does that sound sappy? Yes, upon re-reading, it definitely does. Whatever. It stays.

Clinically? Things are good. Dr. F. and I remain close, and he's got me on 300 mg of lamotrigine daily. And it seems to be working, and as intended--I still have ups and downs, but the ups aren't that kind of up and the downs aren't that kind of down. Eating is healthier, shopping is slightly less (but not a whole lot; I can always make an excuse for more shoes), sex is precisely where it should be, self-harm is more or less done. Sleeping could be better (as evidenced by the 2:00 timestamp on this post), but I like to think my late nights are due more to productivity than to restlessness. Mostly.

None of this is to indicate that everything is perpetual smooth sailing in my life. Nothing ever is. Sometimes my job descends from "sucky" into "brutally sucky," sometimes The Guy and I argue, sometimes I cry for what seems to me to be no reason. Sometimes I get irrationally pissy. And there are times that I do wonder if everything is working, if all of the effort and time and chemicals I've put in my body are just going to catastrophically fail me at some point and I'm going to be left back where I started, but with an added hopelessness of having gotten so close to success and failing. Yeah, it's not great.

But most of the time, it's good. Not great, good. Normal is what I've been aiming for all this time, so getting good most of the time is an unbelievable gift. And knowing what I've come from--and what I could easily go back to--makes me value that good all the more.

I hope that someone out there can take a little bit of hope away from the fact that I've found good--that after a good two decades of helplessness and anxiety, I'm finally able to take some control of my body. That I'm learning to live life rather than just survive it. It's something that, during those deeply crappy times, I never thought possible, and now I know better. I can't even say what, specifically, I did to get here--I can't remember the steps, and I know I can't take credit for most of it. But I'm here. It turns out you can get here from there after all. God will that I'm allowed to stay here, and God will that everyone who is where I was will be allowed to join me.

It feels like I should have some kind of dramatic or touching or inspirational signoff here, something worthy of closing out a (very brief) era. Not really my style, I guess.

- Ann