The dance.

I’ve missed this space, and I’ve missed using it as a vessel to place the hard parts of me. The parts of me that are mine to own, mine to wrestle with, mine to keep, and mine to decide if I place in another’s hands.

I booked a series of counselling appointments today. Doing so felt like admitting (again) that a part of me was broken. I didn’t know what to do with those feelings other than taking a deep breath, pressing the confirm button, and watching the banners atop my phone pop-up as the appointment confirmations came into my email, one by one.

Life has been a dance as of late. Several of these dances started just this past June, and they are steps I am still learning (and fumbling my way through).

The dance of parenting schedules. Figuring out who is “on”, who is “off”, and trying to make sense of it all among the thousand other things on our calendars. Seeing my kids, not seeing my kids, worrying over my kids among the transition, wondering about my kids when I’m gone, wondering about my kids when I’m there, the joy of reconnecting, and the sadness of goodbyes (a sadness that hits me in different depths and different, unpredictable ways every damn time).

The dance of co-parenting. The back-and-forth texting of asks, needs, and wants. The wearing of different shoes, reading of changing rooms, and the navigation of respect (and sometimes failing) around a relationship that has changed so much from its original dynamic. Nonetheless, forging on among such dynamics, undertaking a shared enterprise of care and upbringing for the tiny humans you created together with this person you once loved.

The dance of a tenuous living arrangement. Spaces that should have long since separated (like the relationship that bound it) but remain still unchanged (for too many reasons to name). The dance of respect (and sometimes failing) among choices made in those spaces, the feelings of frustration (on both our ends), and the need for space and distance. The continuation on “as is” because change isn’t going to be soon to come, and how to reckon and be and dance in that period of waiting.

A culminating dance of all these factors, and the effects they’re having on my mental health. My desperate bids for control among a world in which I feel I now desperately lack. Losing myself in the coping mechanisms/dances of doing and busy and cleaning and organizing and obsessions and compulsions in a frenzied bid to find a single iota of control in this life I’m leading. To still have a face and a house and a life to present in this dance of life even if all the parts inside of it are on fire.  

As I’ve danced these steps these past three months, I haven’t always made it past another’s toes. At times, and I’m not proud to admit it, I’ve purposely stepped on toes I’ve deemed in my way. I’ve fumbled and I’ve flailed, I’ve tried to see what works and I’ve had some epic fails. I’ve stubbed my own toes, I’ve caused bruises (both internal and external), and I am still very much on a journey of learning how to step, how to be and become, and how to find happiness in such a gigantic realm of change and transition.

It hasn’t been a pretty dance.

Arguably, this was perhaps the worst time ever for me to have gone off my meds. Tell two months ago me that. I’ll tell my counsellor that.  

Yet, among these dances (and these stumbles), there has been love.

A love of who I am, even if I frustrate the ever living fuck out of myself sometimes. A love of how I’ve changed (physically and mentally). Watching me actively choose now to live/dance the life I want as opposed to the life I was given. A seeing of a girl in the mirror who put in the fucking work, and who is learning to love the person looking back at her (however slow and broken that process may be). She still has a long way to go, but she’s trying, and god damn, she is *dancing*. It is breathtaking to behold. Also, she weirdly goes on hikes now and enjoys it? But, I digress.

A love of my children. These are trying times for all of us, and they have been doing their best to navigate this dance in ways that make sense to them. There have been big emotions, big questions asked, and learning experiences for us all. But god, they’ve grown. And their love for me, no matter my length of absence, has been unwavering. To see their excitement when they realize I’m home or I’m there to pick up at child care or whatever, it’s nourishing. It is giving. It is joy.  

A love of friends. Reconnecting physically and dancing with people that I have long believed because of parenthood, I couldn’t. But I can do hard things. I do them every damn day. I am able, and I can. The exploring of those in-person friendships and how they grow and become among the realities of parenting schedules, offering new dynamics and new ways of existing. New ways of dancing. New ways of rekindling sources of joy.  

And a romantic love (he knows who he is). A love that means a profound amount to me and has helped shape my pathways and journeys in these dances towards goodness and wholeness. A love that I admittedly have pulled into dances that wasn’t his responsibility to lead, and a love that I should have protected better when there was too much of my becoming, unravelling, finding, fumbling, grasping, and flailing among such dances. A love I want desperately to keep, but I love that I will respect if he feels he can no longer be a part of this dance with me.

I see you, counselling.

I’ve changed since I was last in your realm, and there is much for us to reconcile in our re-acquaintance.

I hold my hand out to you now to join me in this dance.

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Dreams.

When I was young, I dreamed of the future. I dreamed of marriage and motherhood. I dreamed of who I would one day love. I dreamed of how many kids I’d one day have. I dreamed of the profession I’d one day do (geologist? interior decorator? teacher?). I dreamed of the house I’d one day live in. I dreamed of the future.

Later, my dreams were with worry. I dreamed of parents that loved each other. I dreamed of a world in which my mom was happy and whole. I dreamed of my father’s laughter and lightness returning. I dreamed of no more yelling, no more anger. I dreamed of different answers than those I was seeing – violence and harm. I dreamed of what should have already been given.  

In high school, I dreamed of difference. I dreamed of escaping the mountain. I dreamed of being a part of the busy, fast, moving world. I dreamed of a changed family dynamic that I could understand. I dreamed of meeting the standards of beauty. I dreamed of being liked and being wanted. I dreamed of that which I didn’t have – difference.

In college, I was in a dream itself – one albeit finding and fumbling. I dreamed of getting my life together (it took a few tries). I dreamed of being someone that my parents could be proud of. I dreamed of accepting myself. I dreamed of getting the grades for which I’d be found worthy. I dreamed of friendships kept, relationships lasting, and me not fucking it all up. I stayed in said dreams for many a year.

These days, I dream of peace. I spoke of this peace recently. It is peace within myself. Peace within my living arrangements. Peace within the chaos that is raising children. Peace within my professional landscape. Peace with my parents. Peace with my brother. Peace with my changing friendship circles. Peace with my ex. Peace within my love life (or at times lack thereof). Peace within my body. Peace within this world. I dream of peace.

Future me, what will you dream of? And will you find it?

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Foresight.

There’s been a shift as of late, a space being made for someone new. I’ve met someone. And as I dip my toes into the feelings of “new relationship” – rushes of dopamine, hints of love drunkenness, and joys over the tiniest anything and everything – I watch myself. Curiously, critically (I am me, after all), and reflectively. I watch what I do and how I act. I wonder.

Am I love bombing?

Am I trauma bonding?

Am I doing that codependency-affection-flooding thing?

Am I going to mess this up, too? (she says, always laying blame inevitably at her feet)

Am I going to turn into my mom – again? (… see above)

I worry, as worrying is me, and poking with ALL the questions at ALL the things with ALL the thoughts is what I do.

I wish to not elaborate here on the answers to the questions above, however, as the answers to all of them are no (when I’m in my right mind, that is, however rarely that may be).

There is something that I keep coming back to though. It’s an excerpt from “Captain Corelli’s Mandolin” by Louis de Bernières, which reads:

“Love is a temporary madness; it erupts like volcanoes and then subsides. And when it subsides you have to make a decision. You have to work out whether your roots have so entwined together that it is inconceivable that you should ever part. Because this is what love is. Love is not breathlessness, it is not excitement, it is not the promulgation of eternal passion. That is just being in love, which any fool can do. Love itself is what is left over when being in love has burned away, and this is both an art and a fortunate accident. Those that truly love have roots that grow towards each other underground, and when all the pretty blossoms have fallen from their branches, they find that they are one tree and not two.”

During the last five or so years of my marriage, I thought of this quote often. Every time it came up on Facebook memories, I re-posted it. Be it to justify and make pretty the reality of my dying marriage, or to cling to it out of hope that where we were at was normal, this quote saw me through. All of our love had burned away, but we had roots. I couldn’t see at the time that those were roots of habit, stubbornness, predictability, and convenience, however. Roots that when finally given a proper looking at practically crumbled, but that’s a story for another time.

These days, I look to this quote in light anew. It is not the roots of it upon which I reflect this time around (there hasn’t been time yet for those roots to grow), it’s the temporary madness. It’s the breathlessness. It’s the passion. It’s awareness that these are times of pretty blooms.  It’s the curious inquiry as to how one helps those pretty blooms last longer. It’s the realization that I am (happily) one of those fools, but at the same time, possessing of agency and mindfulness this time around to better support and guide the narrative, choice, and decision.

It’s hope. It’s open eyes. It’s excitement. It’s tempering. It’s adoration. It’s balance. It’s foresight.

Foresight.

Something I would have given anything to have those sixteen years ago.  

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My self narratives.

A year of beliefs, taken from a year of conversations. All the following came after my words, “I am…

Boring as hell.

Extra.

Terribly socially awkward.

Nerd.

Complicated and not easy.

Doomsponge.

Silly keener.

Not a leader and nor do I find comfort in it.

Entirely too curious.

Doom.

Obtuse.

A cheap bastard.

Being extra AF.

Predictable.

Afflicted with the curse of competency.

Vexed.

Movie dumb.

Pansy Canadian.

The worst.

Being very normal.

Truly terrible.

Not to be trusted with life.

Not very good.

Awkward.

So socially inept.

Dumb.

Oddly excited.

Too doom and gloomy.

Kinda doom reincarnated.

Paranoid AF.

Slightly panicked.

Human.

Fucking vexed.

Intrigued.

Super freaking anxious.

Most proud.

Running solely on caffeine and stubbornness.

Thankful.

Born from the loins of crazy.

Absolutely rattled.

Not prepared.

MOST SUSS.

Not innocent.

Not perfect.

Not without fault.

Two seconds from screaming.

Too predictable.

Crestfallen.

Utterly disenfranchised.

Wrong tho?

Over simplifying the fuck out of everything.

Crazy.

Offended.

A heathen.

Torn.

That way.

A giant confused noob.

Ready to commit violence.

Because I’m scared.

Incapable of making important decisions.

Slightly doubting myself.

Jealous.

Super vocal.

Freaked.

Legitimately terrified.

Gobsmacked.

So enlightened.

Shocked.

Not drunk enough for this.

Stressed.

Exhausted.

An exception to the rule.

So out of shape.

Going to conduct an experiment.

Asking for too much.

Not up to date.

A smarmy asshole.

Wont to do.

Entirely too honest.

Not worth it.

Not worthy.

NOT ALLOWED TO FORGET.

Like, high on life right now.

SO relieved.

Sadly not surprised.

Accepting and embracing this reality.

Without.

Insane.

So excited.

Guilty of.

Really bad.

Here for it.

Wounded.

SO OLD.

For this plan.

Not sure why.

Not allowed.

Much more than what I look like.

Slightly biased.

Stumped.

A silly hopeful optimist.

Curious.

Sleepy AF.

Very people-y, yes.

So fucking happy.

The least fanciest person of all time.

Not going to Google if that is a thing.

So boring.

Crazy owl lady.

Way overthinking this.

Not at all that calculated.

12 years old.

Going to weep with joy.

So god damn tired.

Tired.

Inefficient.

Crispy.

Lame AF.

Reading too much into this.

A terrible person.

Allergic to shopping.

Dumb and hopeful.

Going to be inexplicably joyous.

Dumb when sleepy.

Dreading this with my everything.

Still confused a bit but I always am.

I don’t know how (I am).

Low key embarrassed.

Wading in “I have no idea what I’m doing” waters.

Awe in the stupidity of humanity.

Most blessed.

Lacking cohesion.

Confirmed old.

So mad at myself.

Anxious and nervous.

Always 10 steps behind.

Busy, but often I am equally slacking.

Over it.

There with you.

NOT.

Me.

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