Where to start with this one? I guess I am obliged to start with a disclaimer that this is a weird-ass personal post I do on or around my birthdays. Nobody asked for it and nobody has to read it. Really. Just go ahead and get back to twitter. This one is all about MEEEEE, so if narcissism gives you hives, be warned! Also, be congratulated! Narcissism in adults should give you hives!
When I restarted my blog on this platform there was a group called Drinkers with Writing Problems and I wondered if they ever actually tackled the effect of sobriety on writing. I can’t really address that topic; I’ve found sobriety has crowded writing right out of the routine.
It’s possible that other factors have contributed to my writing stall. A few years ago, I would have plunged into substack and continued to grind and regrind on these books, but now I have left no room for the real writing. It gets no air. Not only that, but the guilt or grief I might have felt about the hibernation also gets no air.
That’s too many words to say I’m barely working on my big writing projects and I’m fine with that.
This year has become a year of recalibrating. Not Eat Pray Love so much as Snack Pray Hide.
The highlights/lowlights:
- Three kid weddings!
- Got a COVID!
- Got a sober!
- Got a dog!
- Got a Mom into assisted living against all odds!
- Got a handle on really recovering from immature parenting!
The weddings were each unique and marvelous in their own way. I was in charge of nothing but one cake pick-up the entire time. This is either a testament to how independent my kids are or how little they rely on me to follow directions, depending on how you want to look at it. It was a poignant stew of seeing almost everyone I love in one summer, along with being itchy on the sidelines as I recognized over and over that it was a case of “Don’t just do something, stand there.” I received extraordinary kindness from some unexpected corners and was relieved I went big on all the dresses when I felt those bursts of button busting pride. I danced like an idiot and I am not sorry.
I caught COVID at the final wedding and stayed home from work for a week pickling myself back to health. My scheme all along was to quit drinking after the weddings, because who could skip wedding champagne? It turns out I can, and will be able to skip it from now on. It’s not a big deal; booze makes itself look important. It’s an illusion.
Okay, well, some days it’s a pretty big deal to be 100% conscious of 100% of 360 degrees of whatever. But honestly, if I can do this anyone can.
My reasons for getting Tofu, the dog, were so nonsensical I cannot recall them now. Looking at rescue dogs felt so correct at the time, I just kept doing it. I wanted a walking companion and found that walking shelter dogs was not the solution for me or for the shelter dogs. My main rationale was that Boo the cat was lonely and the right dog could fit right in and get a home, too. Tofu is the right dog for us, so I suspect we’re the right creatures for him.
The odyssey of getting my mother into assisted living was like the most annoying hobby I can imagine, and that’s saying a lot without saying it. It’s not really over yet, because even though she is safely moved, she is occasionally trying to get herself kicked out. Just at the point that I finally recognized my lifelong mistaken drive to rescue people against their will, I was drafted into the most foolish hero drive possible. I know I cannot save her, but I’m pretty sure I can stay safe from her destructiveness.
It’s highly offensive that anyone should have to support their abuser, isn’t it? Unfair, thankless, blah, blah, blah. I’m consistently pretty angry about it and writing checks makes me grind my teeth and mutter bad words. This is why I have a donation page set up now. Even if I can’t find emotional balance, maybe with help I can balance the books.
As if this year wasn’t enough, I have also embarked on some psychological remodeling that is way overdue. If my neighbors ever complain about my tall grass or shaggy hedges, I could tell them I’m too busy with my inner child reparenting to worry about the curb appeal of my house. I could do that, but definitely should not. I know that and so does my inner child. Most of the time. The tricky thing about inner child reparenting is that sometimes we are called upon to parent other people at the same time, no wait, that’s not a problem. We can already multitask that stuff. Maybe I just don’t care enough about my lawn.
It’s sad but also beautiful: my psyche, not my lawn. I feel like a really old rose bush that has been weighted with crappy vines and misguided trellises and whatever else can be done to screw up a rose bush. But this crafty old bush figured out how to use scissors, because it has thumbs and… let’s just drop this before it becomes another horror story. It’s a hopeful story, but a little sad because there was so much time the rose bush was hobbled and twisted and more gloomy than bloomy.
ANYWAY. This has been a pretty big year. Thanks for putting up with me, assuming you do, and thanks for reading because you are.
If you think you could do with a little therapy, please try it. Don’t be like me and dabble every twenty years before you put your mental health front and center where it belongs. Because of my previous misadventures, I crafted a guide to finding a therapist that might help.
You are invited to weigh in on any of these subjects in the comments, of if you prefer to complain about stuff privately, send me an email. You can subscribe to these nearly weekly diatribes or share if you dare!!
Love,
yermom
askyermom 
Waddaya think?