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Hey there Pranksters.

My name’s Adam Avitable. Some of you may already know me, whether it’s from my writing on Avitable.com, the epic soul portrait that Becky and I had done, or from that one episode of “To Catch a Predator”.

Today is a very special day. A day so momentous that it could only be celebrated by a post by me. A day so amazing, so fucking unbelievable, that there’s no other way to say it.

Happy Elderly Men Day to all of those readers from Kiribati!

How awesome are Elderly Men? They pull off that awesome plaid/stripes combo when they go to Walgreens, they can wash their testicles just by sitting on a toilet and letting those bad boys drop, and they have a license to get mad at anyone, anytime. They can steal, lie, cheat, and they get away with it because they’re cute. Hooray for old fogeys!

There’s something else.

Is today the day I have to pick up my Chinese baby from Fed Ex?

Is it my brozilian appointment?

Hmm.

Oh, that’s right!

It’s Becky’s birthday!

Happy birthday, Becky. You have empowered so many people, inspired thousands, and made so many laugh until they cried. Or puked. That’s always a good laugh if it ends up with puking. It may not be the easiest time for you, and it may not be the most fun, but fuck it. You’ll get through it and you’ll be better than ever. I know it, and so does everyone else who’s ever met you.

Pranksters, won’t you join me in wishing Becky a wonderful birthday filled with love, friendship, and free from ninja attacks?

Adam Avitable wishes Becky a happy birthday!

Drive your cart and your plow over the bones of the dead.

-William Blake

A friend of mine, a great many years ago, once told me, “Jesus Fuck, Becks, can you ever catch a break?”

I don’t believe he was being malicious – it was more a statement of fact than anything else – so I’m certain I simply nodded and smiled, made an off-color joke to distract us both from what would have been a decidedly awkward conversation. There’s very few places one can take a conversation like that without bursting into tears.

I’ve had others echo the same sentiments through the years (and I have met others like me, which makes me believe that I am, at the very least, not alone. If I have done anything good in my life, it is to have created a space with that simple pretext: we are none of us alone; we are all of us connected); my mother, at one point, said, “you can never learn anything the easy way – I feel for you.”

I’ve been so accustomed to these storms, that, most of the time, I can barely enjoy a moment’s peace without waiting for another to touch down, leaving me breathless and shaking, wondering what I’d done in a past life to deserve this. Because come, they always do. Most are (apologies to Douglas Adams) simply a series of unfortunate events strung together in time:

I couldn’t have a single miscarriage; no. I had to have two, back-to-back. When I finally got pregnant again, I immediately fell down the stairs and broke some of the small bones in my feet, which meant that not only could I only wave a bottle of Tylenol near my foot for pain, I then began bleeding, my progesterone levels dangerously low, which meant activity restrictions and the fear that this would be a third consecutive miscarriage. I spent the rest of my pregnancy in Das Boot, chasing after a toddler and house-breaking a puppy who liked to eat poo and then barf it up on the carpet, praying for the safe arrival of my daughter to be safe. She was born with a previously undiagnosed neural tube defect, an encephalocele, and had to go in for neurosurgery at the might age of three weeks. I developed PTSD after experiencing a nervous breakdown, and lost my (at the time) best friend in the world.

Rinse-lather-repeat.

In the face of life, being, as my father always told me as I raged against this or that as a small child, unfair, I’ve learned to carry on, hold my breath and brace myself for the next storm, only occasionally finding the moment’s peace that allows me connection to the rest of the world. They’ll hit me, I know, these storms, knock me off my feet, leave me breathless, send me overboard; the desperation to find something – anything – in the murky chaos of the unknown, to hold tightly onto, until, once again, I can be reeled in, once again looking for my peace.

Life, I’ve begun to understand only recently, is much more about the storms than the peace they attempt to overwhelm.

These storms will always lurk down dark corners, or in the middle of a sunshine-filled day – the type of day that like nothing, ever, could go wrong – always present, always lurking, always ready to, once again, send me flying overboard, once again, looking for any way to get back on deck.

Only this time, I’m done with the notion of clinging for dear life to anything; anyone. Not out of bitterness; no. This time, there will be no one to save me; I’m not – never have been – “little girl lost,” and I don’t need a white knight swooping in to make me whole, to save my life.

It’s time to live life on my terms for the first time. Ever.

The storms won’t cease, and maybe that’s okay; maybe this is simply my lot in life, and instead of fearing these ever-lurking storms, I’m going to embrace them, just as I’ll embrace the few moments of peace and clarity I may have. The cracks, after all, are how the light gets in.

In the past week, I’ve been knocked out, knocked down, faced with one of the biggest storms I’ve (thus far) known, and you know what? My eyes may be blacked and blue, my heart shattered and healing, and yet, in spite of it all, still I remain standing.

It’s what I do.

It’s what I will always do.

And rather than rage at the things that are unfair, the breaks I haven’t caught, the things that will no longer be, I will, instead, embrace these cracks. For it is through these cracks, that even in the darkest of the nights, when my soul feels empty and hollow, that the light – my light – gets in.

Part I

Part II

Part III

Part IV

I’d known that we had problems well before The Guy (formerly) On My Couch moved in – problems created by the both of us – and once he moved out, Dave had transformed into a caring and sweet person; the one I’d fallen in love with so many years ago. While I didn’t exactly hope that we’d be dancing through fields of sunflowers or poppies to the tune of “The Most Beautiful Girl In The World,” I’d hoped we could reconcile our differences and come back to the table once I’d finished figuring myself out and becoming well again.

I wasn’t necessarily certain what that would look like, only that perhaps, I’d be able to call him my friend, co-parent our children, and work out a solution that would make us both happier. I had no illusions that our life would somehow magically be perfect again, only that I’d be happy to reevaluate where we both stood.

I said yesterday – and meant it – that no one plans to get divorced. I certainly never expected that I would be sitting here, wondering how I’d manage to afford living alone, whether or not I could truly make enough money blogging to support myself (so that I can get out of an environment that has proven to be toxic to me), wondering how just how badly all of this will fuck up my poor, sweet, innocent babies. Any one of those conundrums are not particularly easy to solve, and having them suddenly thrust into the limelight while I was at my absolute worst was not, perhaps, the most ideal of situations.

Having a nervous breakdown, I’d been informed, was a time in which I had to focus upon me – and me alone – and work toward recovery. That, being something I’d not done before in conceivable history, and something I was attempting to try and understand.

This whole divorce-thing threw a wrench into the whole damn thing. I couldn’t be getting better if I was attempting to secure my financial stability, my well-being, and focus on recovery and getting healthy.

I honestly don’t where this will take me.

I hope to get back to writing and working on my blog, feeling that the curtain of secrecy is now lifted helps a lot – it’s impossible for me to feel like I have this space – my space – and be unable to truly share what’s going on in my life. I hope that I’ll have some time to really work on my book. I’m hoping to focus on the things I can do rather than all the intangibles I cannot. Knowing that two of the biggest pillars of support in my life have – in one short week – have chosen not to stand by me, well, that’s not exactly the way I’d expected to spend my recovery and my birthday.

I will take each day as it comes – each second, if I have to – and I will work toward rebuilding.

Because I must, once again, rebuild.

I’m just so weary; so, very weary.

And I wonder what it’s gonna take.

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