My boyfriend-turned-friend-turned-boyfriend-turned-friend-turned-pandemic-boyfriend-turned-friend who sometimes sees things I don’t see in myself – good and bad – points out the flaw in my drive to embrace vulnerability.
This week is OCD awareness week, which I somehow missed despite the International OCD Foundation telling me about it repeatedly in emails I forgot to read.
The last few years have been a long-distance marathon away from a pick-your-poison selection of darknesses. The state of being me felt unrelenting and impossible to bear — In my mind, I was not running towards anything better, I was just running away. I was plumb out of fight, so all that was left was a panicked flight to keep the shadows behind me — hard to do when you’re not necessarily setting the sun as your destination.
Yesterday was the first day of Spring.
Today is the anniversary of the last time I saw my dad fully alive.
This past week has tested the resolve of my Wellbutrin. The flu came to visit and got each of us in turn. Lorelei was patient zero — we all had flu shots months ago and got Tamiflu quickly after I took her in for a flu test, so it was overall not as bad as it could have been.
I have a beer fairy.
Let me back up for a minute. During the Great Depression of 2018, I realized that keeping alcohol at home was a terrible idea. A beer here and there is no problem, but when I would buy a six pack I tended to self destruct — I won’t get into all the details, but suffice it to say it was bad enough to make my therapist give me her cell phone number.