2020 has been a hell of a year for everyone.
For me, it meant turning twenty-two, buying a home, getting married, writing accomplishments from a tenth NaNoWriMo to self publishing, pandemic quarantine keeping me from my library volunteering, my best friend moving in and then out, going back on meds, reading dozens of books, crocheting dozens of projects, pursuing the idea I might be having seizures (I don’t), losing another beloved family member, trying new recipes, making new fonts, the US election, taking some writing workshop classes, riots in the streets, trying new photography techniques, exploring being a landlord, growing some plants, wrangling the cats, and so many other things.
It’s been a wild year for literally everyone I know.
2019, I reflected recently, was also a wild year for me. Respiratory surgery, losing my father, becoming a landlord, starting to volunteer at the library, more NaNoWriMo, reading, crocheting, pursuing possible autoimmune or allergy issues (none), recipes, fonts, photography, cats.
2018? Moving in with Kate eight weeks after we met, trying out a tech job, trying a community college class or two, getting one of the cats (and becoming step mom to the other), four months all but bedridden by toxic black mold poisoning, leaving a toxic primary friend group or two or three, reading, recipes, writing, photography.
2017? A community college class or two, my first trip by myself, leaving for college in Cambridge, my first psych ward stay, coming back from college in Cambridge, meeting Kate eight days later, pursuing our relationship, writing, reading, photography, recipes.
Yeah, when our wedding officiant, a good friend, said Kate and I had packed thirty years of marriage into a three year courtship: he was right.
And my mental health was very rocky over the summer or so, and with time, meds, circumstance, effort, so on, it’s vastly improved.
There are bad days. There are days I lie on my office floor and dissociate until Kate finds me and brings me some tissues and water and a snack and a blanket and hugs.
There are bad nights. Nights I forget to close my eyes to try to fall asleep because I’m so used to keeping them open to keep the images at bay. Nights I wake trying to scream. Nights I sleep on the couch because the bed is too much of a trigger.
There are good days. There are days I cannot put words on a page fast enough and days I spend outside happy to mostly swing on our swingset and admire the weather.
Sometimes, those days are back to back. Sometimes, a rough morning becomes a great afternoon. Sometimes, a long, dark night becomes a sunny, beautiful morning.
I had a dream that was one of those fine until it’s not dreams. I stood in the living room of my childhood home, now my rental, but it looked as it did when I was a kid, or maybe as it did early on when it was just my dad living there. But it was still that Wizard of Oz yellow. With me were my mom, my dad, and my grandma.
I became aware it was a dream, but in a pleasant way. My dad and my grandma have passed, and I focused on getting to “visit” with them. First, my grandma. No one but me really said much but she kind of nodded and smiled as I said all the right things. All the things I did say before she passed, but always want to say again. I love you; thank you. I miss you.
I turned to my dad, and realized that this was no longer a dream, but now a nightmare. He was beginning to transform into the image of the corpse that comes to me far more often than an undisturbed image of my father, and at the first tinge of black on his flesh, I snapped, “Don’t try any bullshit,” and immediately woke up.
I nearly laughed. Don’t try any bullshit would not exactly be what I would say to my father if I could, but I didn’t think the dream was some kind of a religious experience or real visitation, and so to say don’t try any bullshit to what is merely a manifestation of PTSD struck me as very funny. As I got over that, I realized the day I had woken up on. And I indeed didn’t have any time for bullshit that day. It so happened to be my wedding day.
Kate and I were married on our third anniversary (of meeting), at home, by a good friend, with a small audience of dear friends and family. We exchanged not only rings but daggers and cloaks, symbolic gifts, and I mean, who doesn’t love daggers and cloaks? We cooked our own reception dinner for a total of ten and ate mostly on the patio. It was wonderful.
As our anniversary was halfway through November, this meant that it was two weeks on the heels of Halloween. October had been a rough month in a few ways, ups and downs, but let me just say: Halloween is a rough holiday for someone with corpse trauma, man. Let’s face it: for a lot of people, it’s literally just a contest to place the most disturbing or realistic looking fake dead bodies in your front yard. Or hanging out the trunk of your car. Or in the windows of your business. Or anywhere else.
I was so on edge that when I stumbled across a man lying between two cars, half under one of them, by the curb of our street, I almost screamed. Not in the way I do out of the PTSD’s hypervigilance (and I do wonder about having the hypervigilance as someone whose PTSD is from an event where it absolutely would not have been helpful. I joked to the 911 dispatcher, “I mean, no rush, I guess.”) He was silent and very still, no signs of motion, no big tool box nearby, no friend or music keeping him company, and half under a vehicle. As I approached, coming back from my walk and about to have a heart attack of my own, I realized that he was working underneath his car, tools beside him, motions very close to him and totally under the car. He gave me a kind of confused look, one that said he understood my initial panic and then not just how strong it was. I nodded, still a little unsure that he was okay, but he was quiet and nodded back, and I moved on, heart pounding for another forty-five minutes though my front door was less than two minutes away.
I haven’t been seeing my therapist, though I’ve texted her a few pictures from the wedding, a Happy Thanksgiving. A brief phone call to my psychiatrist now and then. A trip to the pharmacy or two, though it now seems they’ll send my med via mail, which is nice, as we’re still trying to largely quarantine. And, skipping the weight, the consultation that literally asks, “Is it for sleep or something else?” You’re a pharmacist, my dude, you can say the word. Schizophrenia. Seroquel, my current medication, is prescribed often for simply disturbed sleep, and frequently for bipolar. And, also, psychosis.
But yes, days, weeks, months, years, have their wild ups and downs. Soon we’ll see what 2021’s will be.