“Moment after moment, everyone comes out from nothingness. This is the true joy of life”
- Shunryu Suzuki
I’m not going to sit here and tell you that everything is okay, Pranksters.
That would be a lie. And despite what my relatives may or may not think of me, I am no liar. I am also not actually named “Aunt Becky,” because while my parents were hippies, they were NOT sadists (to be fair: had I been a boy, I’d have been Leif, so honestly being named “Rebecca” is like dodging a massive bullet.)
In a very short time, my life turned upside down. I had a nervous breakdown precipitated by ineffectual antidepressants. Divorce. Moving out. Learning about the world. Trying to do right by my children.
My life’s been an open book through this period – I have nothing to be ashamed of: while I have PTSD, that does not define me, nor does it make me a better or worse person. It’s just a tiny facet of what comprises who I am. Having PTSD and being an ACOA are as much a part of me as my issues with migraines and A GLANDULAR PROBLEM. They don’t define me, they simply are a part of me.
Such is the situation with my personal life.
I’m getting a very civilized divorce so that Dave and I can each find Our (well-deserved) Happy. We will be doing what’s best by the children and allowing them to stay in the home they’ve grown up in, rather than trying to sell our home and shuffling the babies back and forth. I will be here at the home more often than not – I will simply be sleeping elsewhere. I choose an apartment that is about 3 minutes from my home so I could specifically come over each day. But those individual components of what I am coping with; they do not define me; they do not make me who I am.
I won’t lie: the very thought of leaving my children overnight is heartbreaking (I cry every time I think about it), I know that I need this time to learn that I *can* do this on my own – that I *am* a capable adult and that I’ll (some day) be able to shove my successes down the throats of those who do not believe in me. I’ll be able to be a better mother by increasing my faith in myself – I’ve spent too many years of my life allowing what others think of me control my life.
I will be moving on October 13, which gives me two months to get my ducks in a row, set up my online garage sale (got some GREAT shit, Pranksters), continue working on recovering from my nervous breakdown, finding additional work, and getting ready to be on my own. (It’s important to note that paying rent on an apartment is cheaper than trying to take over the mortgage (unless I am somehow granted a visit from the money fairy, in which case, my dimply ass is staying here). We’d bought our home at the height of the market and now it is worth appreciably less than it once was. We have debt – more than I’d care to discuss.
This doesn’t make me a better or worse person. These are all just bits and pieces of me woven together.
I spoke with my therapist, whom I see twice a week, and we discussed my life as it stands today. Specifically, we discussed those things that are within my control and those that are not.
From this moment on, I’m choosing to put the things I cannot control on the back burner and moving forward with my life, rather than wasting another anxiety-filled second upon worrying about the “what-if’s” of my life. If I do not, I will go insane.
I will no longer be living in the past or the future. I have one moment; that moment is right now. What I choose to do with these moments, strung together to form a life, is up to me. I can choose to be happy, or I can choose to live a life of fearfulness.
I choose happiness.
And while my past has shaped me, I refuse to allow it to define me: I define me.
So the Internet has this thing called “Caturday,” which is sorta (I think) like a day that cat people gather together to celebrate cats; and worship them. There are probably like, Cat Saints and shit, but I don’t know. I assume it’s a Cult of Caturday, but not entirely sure. Either way, I have four cats and no one has EVER invited me to participate in Caturday Events, which makes me feel like I’m not as special a snowflake as my Mom once told me I was.
There’s also: Wordless Wednesday, which is, from what I can tell, a really easy way to be all, “I posted shit” when really you just googled pictures and slapped ‘em up. (please don’t lob things at me).
You wanted the best? YOU GOT THE BEST.
Caturday + Wordless Wednesday:
GOLLY GEE WILLAKERS! Look at those fucking CATS getting MARRIED! How’d the cats get into those wee costumes? DID THEY HAVE WEDDING SEX?
ARE THESE THE CATS WE WORSHIP FOR CATURDAY?
HAHAHAHAHA! Those fucking meerkats are getting married, motherfucker! HILARIOUS. And it has “kat” in the name, which I assume means that these mereCATS are a part of Caturday! Plus, this is a photo I found on Google, so it’s Wordless Wednesday TOO!
Oh noes! Who let the dogs out? Was that me?
OF COURSE IT WAS, SILLY! Who DOESN’T think that dog weddings are awesome? (answer: people who love Hitler).
Maybe NOW I’ll get invited into the super sekret Caturday Society?
“Do you think Ozzy is alive?” Dawn asked as we made our way to the Black Sabbath stage on Day One of Lollapalooza, trying to distract me from the guy wearing a skin shirt.
“Nah, he’s probably been propped up like the guy in Weekend at Bernies, or shuffling around backstage yelling, ‘SHAARRROOOON.’ I mean, it’s Ozzy, right?” I replied.
“Do you think they’ll be okay to play a full 2 hours? That’s a long time for an old man,” Dawn suggested.
“Shit,” I said. “How old IS he?” I asked.
“2,084,” Dawn said smartly.
“Well, I think staying here to see Black Sabbath one last time is important – yeah, the Black Keys are awesome and all, but let’s be realistic: Ozzy won’t be around for another tour,” Dawn brought up a very good point.
“Yup,” I agreed, neatly avoided the stray beer cans left on the ground, which, I’ll confess – I wanted to pick up and recycle.
We stood; a moment of silence for Ozzy, before finishing our walk to the stage.
Surrounded by metal heads again, I felt right at home.
I even found a boyfriend:
Stand back ladies (and gents), he’s taken. BY ME.
Finally, the Prince of Motherfucking Darkness took the stage:
He looked good … for a dead guy. I noticed then that my feet, well, the flippy-flops I’d carefully selected (read: thrown on in seconds before walking out the door), they’d begun to…hurt. And not in a “oh that’s cute” kind of way: more like in a FUCK MOTHERFUCKER PAY ATTENTION TO ME sorta way. Standing didn’t help, but after watching the chick in front of me vomit onto the lawn only to have some guy then take her spot and PUT HIS HEAD IN HER VOM, I realized that I was better off standing than not.
Vomit – or the threat of sitting in vomit – does that to a girl.
And then, THEN true love began:
Really, I’d like to moan about my blisters, but that guy leaves me speechless.
Because I bet THAT guy has the joy, joy, joy, joy down in his heart. Or is very intoxicated – hard to tell the difference.