My mom, sister, and I drove around New Bern yesterday, taking turns naming people we know who lost everything– family friends, personal friends, the children and parents of friends. My sister occasionally interjected with the name of someone who had to be water-rescued.
Six months ago, I lost my dad. Or, was in the process of losing him.
The distinction between “here” and “gone” is fuzzy. What I know is that at 4:20 pm on March 28th, I thought the day was as bad as it could get. By 4:25, pm that perspective had been turned upside down.
I’ve been staring at a blank screen for half an hour hours, trying to figure out where to go with this blog post. What do you even say as you watch your hometown become the center of national news?
I love it when people imply that medication is the easy way out of mental health struggles.
First, if that were true, sign me up. I think I’ve put in enough effort in the last three decades to earn a magic pill, no? Certainly, as I approach my five-year therapaversary, I have put in enough hours sitting on my therapist’s couch to deserve the occasional easy solution.
If you’re an extremely perceptive person, you may have caught just an inkling of the fact that I have felt a little reluctant about this whole DBT group thing.
It has always been strangely easy to write about myself. It’s how I work through the shit my brain throws at me, so it wasn’t a big jump to start writing for a larger(ish) audience. The last few years have taught me a lot about connecting with readers and the avoidance of naval gazing.
You know how kids think having to eat vegetables is some sort of punishment? After they’ve turned down yet another food you know they would like if they would just try it, you’re like, “just eat this fucking broccoli because it’s good for you! Why won’t you listen to me?!”