If I’d had to deal with the first six months of my 44th year at one go, I’m pretty sure it would have crushed me. My birth family started unraveling (again), sending me into therapy. My Achilles tendon decided to go all itis-y on me, necessitating months of physical therapy. And what should have been a sprained wrist (really, it should just have been a sprained wrist, damn it) turned into a gauntlet of doctors and testing to determine why my body was slowly morphing into that of a woman’s thirty or forty years my senior.
It would have been easy, because the bad was so bad, to focus solely on the crappity-crap-crap, to make the whole of that time a monolith and let it smoosh me into a Flat Stanley reenactor.
Thankfully, woven in that stream of heartache, fear, anger, helplessness, and other assorted Awful Feelings, was a trip to NYC for RWA, a visit from my mom over Labor Day, a manuscript I loved enough to send out on submission, a lot of writing dates with friends, and much laughter – experiences that kept me going, gave me hope, nurtured my sanity.
The second six months of Year 44 included my first “revise and resubmit” letter from a publisher, a diagnosis (psoriatic arthritis) that–while sucky–is what my dad rightly calls “not fatal and eminently treatable,” a medication that–with each dose–allows me increasingly to forget the hot pain of inflamed joints, and–after a couple of false starts–good progress on those requested revisions.
This is not to say that crap is not ongoing (ingesting that wonder med means a permanent good-bye to alcohol. Boo. Hiss.) or occasionally overwhelming (I’ve cried a lot in the last month). But I’m comforted by the braiding of the good and the bad, happy and sad (ha, rhymes!). I don’t have any deep insights into LIFE that would befit a meme, but how lovely to take stock and realize I got this. Life can seesaw like a badass and I will ride it like I own it, bee-yotch.
Bring on the next 45!