It’s been a year and a month since the initial crash, the day when the harsh realities of despair and evil in the world became the only realities I could conjure up.
That means it’s been almost a year since I was patched, since a dam went up in my brain to stop the hemorrhage of anxiety, since the walls went up around my family to block out anything frightening, anything that would trigger an attack, since I became fragile.
And I do so well.
And occasionally I do so not.
And whenever I have a moment like I did this evening, a reason-I-bought-the-waterproof-mascara-even-though-I-can’t-get-any-solvent-to-completely-remove-it-and-if-I-wear-it-more-than-twice-a-week-it-looks-like-caterpillars-curled-up-and-died-on-my-eyelids kind of moment, I am more upset about the existence of the anxiety and panic attacks than I am anxious or panicky.
And I scare my daughter when I cry for “no reason.”
And after a year, I ask myself if I will ever be the same again… and I realize that’s a stupid question because when are we ever the same?
I really wonder when I will ever be as good again, when I’ll ever be whole and I wonder what that means for a mother, a wife. In truth it seems that part of me leaves the room whenever Dan, Laylee or Magoo are not there. And I’m scared for them and I’m afraid of being afraid.
The more I have to love, the more I have to fear and this seems wrong. And I know I am not alone and I know how to bring peace into my life again after it barges out the door but I don’t want to have to restore it. I want it ever-present. I want what I made fun of Wayne Dyer for suggesting. I want the free-ride.
Then I look at the positive changes in myself over the last year and I would never wish them away. How do you learn to walk, run or eventually fly without first biffing it hundreds of times?
I’m tired of being sculpted; I just want a fairy godmother to poof me into perfection.