It was a narrow victory over the elements, terrifying zippers on a tent, and a seven-month-old puppy, but man won.
She was less enthusiastic about the sound of the zippers on the tent, and wasn’t a huge fan of “solitary confinement,” which is what I imagine she would call the act of being inches away from us while in the death chamber otherwise known as her crate, and made it known. She also questioned the safety of being in a moving vehicle amongst shadows cast by trees, but in a stunning act of courage, only tried to hide in Alex’s arms a few times.
Needless to say: everything went better than expected. Paranoia is kind of my strong suit, so this doesn’t really surprise me. Em is officially a camping puppy now, and we have officially gotten back one of our hobbies now that she is old (and trained) enough to handle it.
It is a chilly Sunday afternoon in late October 2007. We’re in my hometown, a small suburb of New York City that smells like freshly baked cookies, at the train station in Radburn. You are going home to Maryland after a quick trip up to see me, and two trains and a four hours from now you will be two hundred miles and four weeks away from me. Your first train — to Manhattan — doesn’t come for another 45 minutes, but we’re bundled up in my Nissan, sitting in the parking lot, and waiting anyway.
We’ve been here many times before, saying our goodbyes in various iterations: to the tune of Metallica’s “Nothing Else Matters,” to Queen’s “Killer Queen,” to the sound of of dull windshield wipers on rain-streaked glass. Your leaving has become so familiar to me, though not familiar enough to stop the tears that inevitably stream down my cheeks each time you leave, or the tears that now sting my eyes as we sit here again, waiting in the cold, dark sunshine.
“I’ll be back so soon,” you say as you turn to me and grab my right shoulder, your eyes wide, and voice undecided on the tones of feigned optimism and real sadness. My hands are wrapped around my mysteriously ice-cold steering wheel, its leather cracking from winter dryness, and crumbling off as I slowly, nervously, run my thumb across the surface. I haven’t changed position since we arrived, and I haven’t yet looked you in the eye. As soon as I look at you sitting next to me, as soon as I speak, as soon as we make the tiniest motion towards the future, we’ll be saying our goodbyes when all I want to do is just exist — with you — always.
It takes me several seconds to react to your words: a couple to dislodge my heart from my throat, a couple to stifle the sobs that threaten to escape with each exhale. I manage a silent nod, and a hug over the center console with a rotated waist, seatbelt still buckled across my shoulder. I’m feeling too sad for small talk, but I’m anxious not to waste a single second that I have left with you, savoring the sweetness that is speaking to you in the flesh. I mumble something about your return — about eating more Turvino’s pizza, more walking through the woods, more 2 AM burger dates at the diner, more museum-hopping in the city — with an urgency in my delivery, as if the quicker I spoke the quicker time would pass and materialize it.
The minutes float right up and disappear in thin curls as we talk and scan the radio one station at a time, hoping to find a song with a good beat to get lost in. We settle for the 50 Cent CD stashed in the compartment of the passenger side door when even Hot 97 lets us down, and I hear the coin drop intro as I check the time and see that we have about 10 minutes before the train comes. I decide not to point this out to you, and we listen to several minutes of “What Up Gangsta,” my heart rate increasing with every beat of the music until I finally start to shake uncontrollably. You turn off the stereo with a swift left-turn click of the dial, and speak to me in the soft, careful tone that one uses to address a grizzly bear or a individual with a gun in their hand. You are saying that we should go up to the platform, but I can barely hear you over the thundering cry of loneliness in my heart.
Reluctantly we step out of the car, and I zip myself up to the chin in my army green bomber jacket. I walk around the back of the car to meet you, grab your thick wool coat by the lapel, and reel you into me. I nuzzle into your neck and say weakly, “I don’t want you to go.” You say that you don’t want that either, but remind me: four short weeks. You’ll be back soon.
We walk hand and hand to the tracks, and turn in for a several-minute-long embrace. “I really don’t want to go,” you say as you pull away to look at me. I take my turn injecting positivity into an overwhelmingly negative scenario, comforting you with the same reminder you gave me, and a whole flurry of reasons why this wasn’t so bad: after this, we’ll have two visits in a month. After the second visit, I’ll be moving to Maryland. After I move to Maryland, we’ll never have to say goodbye again. Those thoughts are an immense source of comfort in these last excruciating moments as your train pulls up.
As passengers file into the cars, you pull me in one last time and squeeze me tight. We steal a few last kisses before you release me, saying in the happiest tone you can manage, “Bye! I’ll talk to you soon!” You start towards the open metal doors, your hands shoved in your pockets, and give me a quick look before you board. I stand at the platform, wiping tears from my right cheek with my right hand, and watch the train leave. I feel the Earth shutter violently to a halt.
I walk in cold silence back to my car, find track five on that 50 Cent CD in CD player, and challenge myself not to cry during the one mile drive back to my house. I find myself glancing at the passenger side as frequently as I glance at my mirrors –noticing the way the air vents are positioned, the way the seat is tilted — missing you so terribly. The earth is no longer turning, the sun is now black, and even still: time is passing, life is going on. You’ve already been gone for five minutes, and I’m already pulling into my driveway and opening the door to the house which is empty now, and quiet.
I’m sitting, numb, on the edge of my bed. I screen a call from a friend, and answer a call from another, and after a five minute pep-talk, I’m feeling decidedly better. The sun looks yellow and warm from the window, the earth sputters, and shutters, and starts to spin, and my heart and stomach are in their necessary positions. I’m getting up to make myself a cup of tea, and hear my phone ring: it’s you. I answer. “Hey baby,” you say impishly. “I just got to Penn Station, and I don’t know what happened, but I guess I timed everything wrong, and I just missed my train. I’m going to get on one in five minutes back to Radburn. Can you come and get me?”
I’m rushing back to Radburn Station, green lights all the way. I arrive several minutes before you are due to, and I am standing in the cold at the same platform you just left from, anxiously waiting for you to return. Not two minutes later, I’m sprinting down the pavement and into your arms. This is the way it should always be.
I couldn’t be more thankful that you are here, and honestly, Alex: I don’t think I could love and adore you any more than I do right now.
* * *
Weeks later, after those two visits, and after I made that move to Maryland, you told me that you got to Manhattan that day and couldn’t make yourself leave. You called your boss, told him you wouldn’t be at work the next day, and immediately called me to get you. I don’t think I can explain what that day meant to be, but it changed my life. Thank you for coming back to New Jersey for me. Thank you, most of all, for loving me so much, and being my best friend. It has been a truly wonderful eight years with you. To infinity, and beyond!
It’s spring — according to the calendar. It’s also overcast, rainy, and cold — so it’s basically exactly like winter and nothing has changed. On the other hand, I have just said words about the external reality of the Fort family on this blog for the first time in several months, so at least something is different.
I’ve been back here with some consistency — every two weeks or so — armed with something flowery to say about the process of identity, the process of career, the process of growth. Aside from feelings, and psychology, it is what I like to talk about most — this fake-it-til-you-make-it process that is adulthood. I find myself often in my own head thinking of those very things, and whenever I get a chance, writing about them. Sometimes I think I go full days without really being in or appreciating the external world, and this is something I would like to change. Let me take some time to catch you up a bit on our external life: no metaphors, no eloquence, no deep thoughts, no deep feelings — just random, disconnected musings in utterly unstylized language. For the moment, this is our reality:
// For the past month, Alex has been in charge of putting together and hosting OE meetings for his team, has been on-call more than ever before, and has been saddled with validating the security of a huge project as one of the company’s only security certifiers. It is a lot of work on top of his already jam-packed schedule of production deadlines, but it will likely pay off in a really big way for him (read: promotion). I’m really proud of him.
// I have cut back on my drug of choice, aka Diet Pepsi. It is the only soda that I drink because it doesn’t burn the hell out of my eyes, nose, and mouth like the full-calorie versions, and doesn’t taste like straight-up pepper a la Diet Coke. I like to have one at the end of the day, and it is basically my version of alcohol because…I don’t drink alcohol. Trust me, I’ll go to any lengths to rationalize this habit. I don’t even know what to say about giving it up other than the struggle is real.
// We watched the movie Whiplash last weekend, and thought it was amazing. It really captures the dark side of perfection, and just struck me to the the core. Given my struggle with perfectionism, this movie was both scary and sad for me to watch. After the truly incredible, and in my opinion, heart-wrenching final scene, I couldn’t stop myself from crying. Alex and I both agree that it is one of the best movies we have ever seen.
// We have also been really into the show Parenthood, and binge-watched four seasons already. I identify most with Julia, Alex empathizes most with Drew, and Sarah drives us both insane. The show (in combination with the plethora of people we know who are giving birth this summer, I’m sure) has sparked a lot of child-rearing conversations and discussions about our parenting philosophies, so it’s not a total waste of time. And this, folks, must truly be adulthood: having conversations about producing (and raising) children on purpose.
// I’ve just discovered coloring books for adults. They’ve apparently been a thing for around a year now, while I’ve apparently been living under a rock. Carl Jung was actually one of the first psychologists to use coloring as a means of increasing relaxation and reducing stress. I love art therapy, and have actually facilitated and participated in the practice for about a year now, and have found it so therapeutic. I think I am going to buy a few coloring books and incorporate more art into my self-care routine.
// Em is now 6 months old, and has tripled in size. She is ~18 lbs of pure sweetness, sleeps much less, and has so much energy. It is hard work raising a puppy, but wow, she is completely worth it. She is definitely the best (and craziest) thing to ever happen to us, and we love her so much. Today is actually the day of her spay surgery (it’s also National Puppy Day, so I feel EXTRA terrible about it), and we are fairly nervous. If I’m being real, I was *thisclose* to passing out when they handed us the papers to be signed, and I’ll be a wreck all day, I’m sure. We’re hoping for a safe procedure and a speedy recovery.
// Speaking of Em, Alex recorded a video of her being a puppy and turned it into a gif. I’ve watched it a lot.
// We enjoyed this ten minute animated film about a troubled relationship. I’ve watched it twice.
// In two weeks, Alex and I will celebrate eight years of togetherness. We plan to honor the occasion by eating pizza and watching Twister as usual, and then spending a long weekend on the coast where we will probably also eat pizza and watch Twister. We’re so looking forward to listening to the ocean waves crashing, and taking Em to the beach for the first time.
// I’ve fallen in love with the pear and cardamom muffin at Volunteer Park Cafe in Capitol Hill. My friend Ash introduced me to it, and it is basically the most delicious muffin I have ever eaten. I am determined to recreate it (likely with this recipe) at home. I also love their veggie quiche, but as far as trying to make it at home — I’ll quit while I’m ahead.
// Alex and I got incredibly lucky, and were awarded permits to backpack in The Enchantments again this year. I am pretty sure I squealed when I got the email. There is something so satisfying about trudging up miles of steep, rocky trails with a 30 lb pack to a destination, and then collapsing out of sheer exhaustion at camp. There is something even more satisfying doing it all in one of the best backpacking destinations in the state. We are thrilled to say the least.
Well friends, I hope you are well! I’ll be back soon to talk about feelings, and no doubt use flowery language while doing so. See you soon!
I am somewhat astonished to think how fast time has passed, and to think how old I am. I remember when the park on which my house sat was wilderness to me, and when all it took to look and be “cool” were Adidas track pants that made a sweeping sound when you walked, and when New York City was the fancy. I remember when I was in the fifth grade I had a dream one night that I lived in small Manhattan apartment with a big window and a cold brick wall. I had a husband and one child — a girl with thin, messy light brown hair that grew just past her shoulders — and I walked the same parks, and drove the same streets, and saw many of the same people I did when I was a kid. I was 28 years old.
I built a little slice of my identity in childhood atop that dream, and 17 years later, I’ve built a little slice of my identity atop the fact that the dream did not come to fruition, and I am glad for it. Freud asserted that dreams are a representation of unconscious desires, thoughts, and motivations. Cinderella voiced this in layman’s terms as “a dream is a wish your heart makes.” By those standards, one might suppose that the images I saw in my dream were manifestations of my deepest hopes, but 11-year-old me was not particularly hopeful about any of it.
For most of my childhood, I was fed an idealized image of my life that I viscerally rejected in the same fashion a toddler might reject a spoon full of pureed grossness. This image consisted of me being in my mid-twenties, married with two kids, living in New Jersey, and within a stone’s throw of my parents’ house. It’s not that those things didn’t sound good in theory (mom’s spaghetti & pizza all the time!), but that the application of those things didn’t make sense for me. I was five when I first stated that I wasn’t sure that I wanted kids, nine when I realized that I would need to think twice — three times, even — before getting married, ten when I concluded that I couldn’t settle for New Jersey when I hadn’t explored a life anywhere else, and eleven when I was first confounded by how all of this planning for the future made no sense. I felt that there was just no way that I could decide in childhood who to be in adulthood when I didn’t know a damn thing about future me, about what that person would like, or be like, or act like. I was a work-in-progress, and I would cross those bridges when I got to them.
But the truth can be a little unsettling for people. Not having a solid plan for the future either seemed foolish, or was very hastily and presumptuously associated with having a plan to not do anything at all. It was only natural to me that I started lying to myself — and everyone — to avoid rejection. So I started making tiny changes to the plan idealized for me and started, quite assuredly, calling it my truth. I’d choose the city over NJ, have one child instead of two, and I would do it all in my late-twenties instead of my mid-twenties. It wasn’t the life I truly wanted, but it was a life that would be accepted by others. It seemed, at the time, better than the nothing I had actually come up with in all of my non-committal glory. I talked about this new image of my future often, thought of it frequently, and sometimes I was so preoccupied with the thought before I fell asleep that I dreamt about it.
Those dreams offered me predictability and an illusion of stasis. It meant I didn’t have to look far for a support system, or search endlessly for a place to call home, or spend decades creating meaning or purpose for my life that I could have just gotten by enduring several hours of labor and several months of sleep deprivation. Most importantly, it meant never having to say “no” in the face of so many yeses, or having to say “yes” in the face of so many nos. I carried that dream with me for longer than I’d like to admit, even when it became painfully obvious that my life was headed in a different direction.
Now here I am at 28, and out of the three overarching images I dreamt of myself at this age (New York City, husband, child), I have only attained one of them. If you asked childhood me, they would say I have essentially attained nothing. But if you ask me right now, I would say that I’ve actually attained everything. I didn’t get the childhood dream, but I got what is best suited for me. I pursued, often fearfully, what feels right to me, and as such, have gotten so much more than myself or anyone could have imagined for me in childhood. The best of those things are true happiness, self-confidence, and an overwhelming sense of freedom. That means more to me than finding a home, or a husband, or a child, which most everyone does — easily.
I am not afraid to say what I feel now, or pursue my vision of happiness even if it looks wildly different from that of others, or just be myself regardless of who may like it or not. I feel confident in who I am as a person, confident in my life choices, and confident in my ideas for the future. I feel free, and happy and so, so proud to say that I still have no idea what I want to be when I grow up. I may make a modest living for myself working as a school counselor, I may ball-so-hard when I open my own practice, I may even say “fuck this shit, I’m out” and go become a college professor, or a professional climber, or a marathon runner, or go back to college and turn that minor in Geology into another BA. I have no idea — I am not going to marry myself to a future that is not even guaranteed. I don’t have a five year plan that involves anything other than not dying, but Alex and I have discussed some of the thousands of possibilities: I may be the glorified version of who I am right now; I may be pregnant; I may live in Germany (or The Netherlands, or Colorado, or still in Washington); I may be a mother of a little girl with thin, messy light brown hair that grows past her shoulders; I may be the owner of two insane Boston Terriers that never stop running around. The freedom of those thoughts — the freedom to know that I can still choose, that nothing has actually been chosen yet — makes my heart race, and my eyes widen, and my heart expand with sheer elation.
When I used to think of my future, I just saw myself, vividly, with what I described in my dream. It was all very specific, and actually made me feel quite desperate. Now when I think of my future, I see myself, vividly, alone in the middle of a room with a montage of images from all of my potential futures streaming onto the white walls from a ceiling projector, and I’m dancing to “Ice, Ice, Baby.”
Infinite freedom. Infinite possibility.
I will, until the day I die, have time to make decisions (and revisions, which a minute will reverse). I’ll never have the ability to un-make any of them.
Sometimes I miss being 14. Sometimes I miss being unmarried, just so I could still experience marriage for the first time. Sometimes I miss the last weeks of living in Georgia, and the feeling of so much potential ahead. Sometimes the thought of having something is better than actually having it, because it is something to look forward to. One day, I know I am going to miss this. I’ll miss the time where I had so many big decisions left to make, and more time than I ever realized in which to make them.
I think I am just going to enjoy all of the confusion, and excitement, and the staggering freedom to dream some of life’s biggest dreams. No need to have it all figured out at 28.
You know things are bad when the puppy has peed on your comforter by 5 AM, the only thing you’ve eaten in over 24 hours has been three pretzels, and a paper due later in the day for family therapy is only half done. But you live across the street from a dry cleaner, and you can probably stand to lose a few pounds, and you know that there’s always the option to say “Fuck This Shit I’m Out,” and move to Thailand, so it’s not all bad.
That was the early February slump. The world went quiet, misty, grey-blue, and dark just as Tim Burton would devise it, and so too did our spirits. I had more work to do than I could manage, and I couldn’t bring myself to look at the calendar, the to-do list, the schedule, my email, or my course syllabi. The thought of another night coming home at 11:00 PM was too much to bear, and even more so was the thought of another day without sunshine, or another evening full of nothing but correcting the puppy’s mischievous behavior. I was just so exhausted. The only thing I felt I had the energy to do was put my head down on my stacks of neon yellow, pink, and blue-streaked papers, and cry until I made a watercolor.
When I’m feeling low, I remember that I’m a grown woman and can do whatever I want, and I let myself feel just that. Sometimes it’s the only thing I want to do. But when I’m feeling defeated, actually defeated by work, by school, by deadlines, by the socially constructed and self-imposed ideal of busy — I just laugh. Sometimes it’s the only sensible thing to do.
The upshot to being busy and stressed is that the days fly by, and there is always the promise of an easeful, fun weekend with Alex, boozy peanut butter and chocolate milkshakes, the outdoors, greasy diner food, a Harry Potter moving-watching marathon with a crazy puppy that sometimes sleeps, and these days, SUNSHINE. Two days of solid goodness (and whatever the opposite of bullshit is), and that is really not all bad.
Now that the slump seems to be over, and the sun has made an appearance several times, and there are only three more papers left to write, things are really looking up for me.
If you’re wondering about Alex, however, it’s a different story: things always look up for him. I presume this is largely because he’s got stress management, doing hard things, being good at doing hard things, and not totally sucking at life down to a science. Over the past several weeks his new boss has been requesting new features he’d like to see created and pushed out for the complicated back-end of their website, all of which, unbeknownst to him, had already been thought of and completed by Alex. See what I mean? Down to a science. In an environment where being right and doing things right — all the time — are of utmost importance, this particular trait reflects well on his image. The features he created were just some of the production goals he has met that he is hopeful will help to get him promoted this year, a task that is notoriously difficult to accomplish at his place of employment. I’m incredibly proud of him.
We’re wrapping up February with something like the flu, and a semi-celebration of my birthday on Thursday, and really not much else noteworthy other than the usual, like wrangling a puppy, eating burgers, and potentially doing something outdoors. Perhaps we’ll start officially planning and choosing concrete dates for our European vacation, or start planning a trip for our dating anniversary, or maybe, because that all involves doing things, we’ll just call it good for the month.
I hope your February has been well, and that unlike Alex (and all employees that can’t simply not do their jobs just because it’s president’s day), you get to enjoy a day a nice day off today.
I also hope it wasn’t the team you love that gave up the ball to the Patriots at the goal line and lost the super bowl.
See you soon.
This month, I am Captain Ahab. My ship is work, and school, and gamut of research, the white whale is a little something I’d like to call understanding, and there are motherfucking snakes on this motherfucking ship.
It began the first week of January when I realized just how hard it can be to grapple with personal demons while on this quest to help people combat their own. Before then, there was a part of me that thought that extensive education about a subject (of the psychological variety, at least) made me almost immune to it, and I believed that given how much introspection I do, I was at least somewhat in control of myself. It was all very sudden when knowledge, when extensive education about a subject — what has always been my life ring — was ripped away in a furious current, and I was fighting to keep my head above water, clawing desperately for breath until my arms could no longer move and all of my energy had slid from my grasp, and suddenly I was sinking, no longer immune.
Working cases, making a diagnosis and treatment plan, and writing analyses is the name of the game in graduate school, and at this stage, aside from actually conversing with people in the therapeutic manner, it is what I find to be most intimidating. Fumbling like I always seem to do for some sense of comprehension in general, and already full of fear as I face the daunting task of trying to just help someone in some way, I was given the assignment of working the case of an individual whose story is similar to my own, and all of what I knew or thought I knew just started to…slip away. Things — the circumstances, the story — hit a little too close to home, and I was triggered by someone else’s experience for the very first time. My body went cold, my heart started to race, and the line between the empathy that I had for this individual’s struggle and the hurt for my own was suddenly blurry. It’s all a bit of a haze to me, but one moment I was 27 and the next moment I was 13. My ability to rationalize, and to be objective was all but completely lost, and I found myself becoming indignant, defensive, and even downright dismissive of other parties involved. I made unfounded assumptions and drew some conclusions that were just entirely wrong — based on my projections of my own unresolved conflicts — before I realized what I was doing and stopped, absolutely horrified with myself. This is called countertransference according to psychoanalytic theory, and while it’s neither good nor bad — like all feelings — it is generally the job of a therapist to remain neutral and avoid, if possible, this phenomenon. While I am glad for the experience as I know what to do in order to keep myself in check if it happens again, I am still a bit frightened by my encounter with it, and have been unable to stop thinking of that moment.
After a few more confrontations with my own unresolved issues in various other therapy-related contexts over the past several weeks, I have been on one big self-analysis binge. On one hand, after becoming deeply familiar with my countertransference triggers, defense mechanisms, projective identifications, and the like, I can actively see these things happening as I do them, and I am able to redirect to a healthier form of being. On the other hand, I’ve come to wonder just how I have become so fucked up, and ultimately decided that no matter how — I am half of the equation — and if I devote enough of my energy to it, I can change my self-talk and ultimately my behaviors. Though I thought I had a hold on this last year, it turns out that I have only just begun to internalize the fact that life didn’t just happen to me (which is half of my mantra for the past 11 years, so it took long enough), and that it is really time to make a greater effort to move past the past.
I’m glad for this space at this time, if for no other reason than to communicate publicly, and somehow more loudly to myself, that I am not fucking perfect — no one is — and it is okay.
For now, I’m just baby stepping my way forward.
Along with Alex, I’ve been baby stepping into the vastness that is 2015, and being surprised with a lot of goodness, with a lot more to be anticipated. I made a few new friends, really awesome ones, Alex has been steadily increasing his expectancy in trading by gigantic leaps, we got to see Alex’s dad, we found out that this year we get to enjoy the company of a baby while not actually pulling the trigger and completely upheaving our entire life, and in a few more weeks we get to see Alex’s mom. We have plane tickets to two cities in Europe to buy for a two week vacation in September, and maybe a train ticket to another city if we can decide if we want to do it. There’s my 28th birthday to celebrate (oh, FFS…) and then dating anniversary plans to make, which will also be the first trip we ever take with Em. I don’t really know what to say other than it’s been interesting, and it’s getting more interesting every day.
While I have avoided the blog due to my (perceived?) lack of time, and the fact that sometimes I just do. not. have the energy to form a coherent sentence and tell you guys what we’ve been up to, I know I like to come here just to chat about life, and should probably do it more often, even if what I say amounts to nothing more than an ill-formed rambling. Life is sweeter for certain when you have good people to share it with — even from afar.
I’ll be back in a week or two, maybe with more on feelings, or maybe with something slightly less awkward for some people like pictures of the dog or something? Either way, count on it!
2015 feels BIG — like there is nothing but possibilities and challenges and joys for the taking — and we are going to grab it all with both hands and hang on for the ride. The feeling that this year will be a great one is pretty overwhelming.
Last year, with extensive help from my therapist, I learned how to set goals without necessarily marrying myself to them, and this year, I’m taking action to do just that. Instead of making resolute…resolutions…I’ve decided instead to set some tentative, totally-able-to-change-or-not-happen-at-all-without-me-freaking-out intentions for 2015, and struck up a conversation about it with Alex, who also has some intentions of his own.
Here’s what we came up with for the new year:
Alex has only two intentions that he is truly passionate about pursuing this year, and perhaps the biggest one is refining his trading edge and skill. Aside from programming, it’s the one hobby he has that he gets the most satisfaction from, and after progressing by leaps and bounds in 2014, he is super excited about the potential for even bigger success this year. On a more professional level, he is hopeful for a promotion at work this year — something that has been talked about by his manager for about a year now – and he intends to finish up a couple big projects with his name on them to solidify it.
As for me, what I intend to do most in 2015 is choose happiness, even if it means saying no, even if it means drawing boundaries, even if it means doing something I am completely afraid of doing, even if it means pushing myself, even if it feels like the pursuit is going to kill me. Part of choosing happiness is choosing to surround myself with more people who value me, who listen to me, and who fill my life with positivity, while saying a long overdue goodbye to those who just simply cannot be a part of my journey anymore. In 2015, I intend to be an advocate for myself and my needs, and pursue the things that will lead to my mental, physical, emotional and professional betterment. In 2015, I intend to overcome my depression, be kinder to myself, release myself from perfectionism and anxiety, and become the person I know I have the capacity to become.
Our collective intentions, however, are a little more exciting and a little less heavy. We’d like to spend some more time in the North Cascades, take a backpacking trip or two (we would go berserk if we got another Enchantments permit, but we’re not holding our breath…), take a trip down to Mount Rainier for the first time since we’ve lived here (I know, I know…), go camping with Em for the first time, do anything at all (camping? drinking in the woods? both?) with Amelia and Brent, and take a European vacation, where spending a day on a glacier is our #2 priority.
Oh, and we’d be super pleased to live up to our Meyers-Briggs personality type resolutions (I am an INFJ, according to official assessments; Alex is an INTJ, according to the internet).
We hope that you are well, and that whether or not you feel particularly positive about the new year, that it exceeds all of your expectations.
Here’s to hoping that every day, every month, and every year is better, easier, and hopefully happier than the next.
Here’s to a truly wonderful year, and the hope of another.
Wishing you the very best in the new year. See you in 2015!
Today we will take our Christmas celebration out of the very empty city and into the very empty woods to take Em on her first wander. We plan to return when we are good and tired to lounge on the couch and gorge ourselves on peppermint bark and cookies, sip hot cocoa, make pizza for dinner, and of course, watch Twister. We’ve been looking forward to a nice little break for a while.
We hope that you get to spend some quality time with the people you love, eating good food, and relaxing as much as possible, but most of all, we hope you are happy.
Have a very merry christmas!
Week One: Begin the journey feeling like you RUN THIS BIZ. Stare at pages of a puppy training book for what is probably an unreasonable amount of time. Hold back tears during a mid-morning potty break outside with the dog, and almost fail at doing the same during a mid-morning potty break on the living room floor just two minutes after returning indoors. Google phrases like “I hate my puppy” and “post-puppy depression” while the dog naps peacefully on your lap. Cry hard enough that your husband thinks you’re having some kind of breakdown. Learn that preparedness and readiness are not the same thing. Accomplish nothing of worth with training and feel like utter shit.
Week Two: Tell dog you love her constantly because you aren’t sure if what you actually feel is love and desperately need convincing. Surprise yourself by miraculously becoming familiar with some of her cues, successfully taking her outside before she eliminates in the house. Sob uncontrollably over your incompetence as a trainer and the impossibility of life when the dog later pees on the couch — three times. On a particularly calm night, forgive yourself for not being perfect, and sympathize more with the puppy who you’ve decided to be extra, extra, extra patient with because she is (definitely) trying her hardest and (probably) loves you. Decide for the nth time that you’re just not cut out for this shit with a human child.
Week Three: Begin the week feeling LAST WEEK WAS CRAZY AND I AM SO DONE WITH CRAZY. Look at the puppy and feel shockingly glad for the responsibility of caring for her. Spend a couple collective hours trying to get the dog to walk the 100 yards from the elevator to your apartment without choking herself or furiously biting the leash, ultimately giving up halfway through the week when you realize it’s virtually impossible. Feel like you and the puppy have jumped this huge crate-training hurdle when you put her in the crate fully awake, she falls asleep while you are gone, and (provided that you’re silent) doesn’t even stir upon your return. (!!) Try to do the same thing again but get the timing wrong, and end up with your first (but only) crate accident — and the third too many accidents in one day for your poor, rapidly deflating ego.
Still, Somehow, Week Three: Cry as you tell your husband that you’re surely failing at life: one minute you’re making progress with the dog and the next minute you’re drowning in a sea of piss when you mistake the puppy’s sniffing for actual curiosity. Notice that you’re genuinely excited to see your dog and spend (tons of) time with her. Successfully take puppy on her first walk outside. Feel yourself bonding more with puppy. Attend your first formal dog training class. Feel your heart sink to your stomach when yours is the overly energetic one in class that won’t pay attention or sit still. Nearly burst into tears of pure pride when your puppy learns to sit, stay, wait, and lie down on command. Get hit with the realization that the hard times are so, so worth it, and that you have really fallen in love your dog.
Week Four: Begin feeling like you RUN THIS BIZ FOR REAL THIS TIME. Feel happier and calmer than you have felt in weeks. Successfully let dog roam the floor and read cues to take her outside before she pees on your leather furniture. Successfully remove the pee-thwarting towels from the couch without incident. Successfully walk with dog outside on a harness. Make improvements walking down the hallway on a leash. Start feeling like puppyhood is about 75% positive. Become unable to see your future without your dog. Cry only once.
Week Four and a Quarter: Begin seeing your new routine as totally normal. On Monday, feel like you’re back to your old self. On Tuesday, feel hopeful that just as things have gotten easier, they will continue to get easier with every passing week. Write a blog post about your turbulent month in the hopes that someone going through a similar circumstance will see that they aren’t up shit creek totally alone — we’re here, too. Shed no tears. (Yet.)
*With difficulty, and completely without grace.