Been quite some time since I’ve written here, which is neither good nor bad I think, it’s a simple something that is. Summer has taken it’s firm grip on Los Angeles and we have three fans running at all times, the animals would sweat if they could but instead they lay on the cool hardwood floor, moving as little as possible. Sometimes I lay with them, because it makes sense. Poor furry things with all the logic.
I just returned from Washington, visiting my Dad and helping him prepare for his move to Angola. Strange how far we’ve come, how our relationship has gently unfolded from the tight clenched fist of anger (my small angry fists), to open, loving arms and hands that help stuff bags with lightweight breathable clothing made by Columbia Sportswear. If someone would have said, two and a half years ago, that this past Fourth of July, I’d be exploding fireworks at my Dad’s place and trying not to cry as we locked his last crate, the last of five seventy-pound crates to be lugged halfway around the world so that he may enjoy some of the small comforts of home, I would have laughed in his or her face. I would have said, “Yeah fucking right, there is no way a relationship can mend that quickly.”
Had I not been so dedicated to therapy, both with Jill and Reef, things would have turned out differently. Had I not focused on recovery, on staying away from dangerous behaviors, both physical and cognitive, we would not be where we are. The truth is, had I not decided that my way of living was no longer working, and made a conscious effort to do everything 100% different (and most often 100% opposite), I would not have all these wonderful relationships in my life. If I didn’t have the relationship with my Dad, I don’t think the relationship with Mr. Man would have blossomed as it has. I don’t think I’d have as many male friends as I have, actual men that I have not slept with. I don’t think I would have girlfriends, or the confidence to pursue my ambitions as I am.
It’s amazing what a little support can do.
So he moves to Africa on Sunday, a three year trip that we’ve known about for just under a year and been prepping for but is finally coming to fruition, finally tickets purchased, bags packed, ready to go, and it’s just amazing how much has happened. For the both of us.
I’m nearly finished with the second rewrite of my book. Very very very exciting. Very excited.
I start school again this fall, a junior college and a full, five-course load still pursuing a degree in Psychology, ultimately a Ph.D and perhaps some medical school as well? I can imagine a day where I am married, with a family that is bigger than the current dog and cat show. Out of the ten thousand and eighty minutes that exist within a week, I only give five to seven minutes to thinking about PF. That’s not to say I don’t remember where life can go if I let it get out of check, it’s just to say that I’m not terrified of the missteps I’ve taken. In fact, I enjoy where those missteps ultimately left me. There is still some sadness, like sorting through family photo albums and realizing my pictures are completely missing from fourteen to twenty-six, but that sadness dissolves into acceptance, with a little time, new pictures will take those empty slots.
Every morning, I wake up, go for a three mile run with the dog face, eat some watermelon, work on the book, and hang out with Mr. Man. Family, friends, mentors, teachers, they all seem to have become one. This life is so full, and dare I say, intoxicatingly normal. And each of the ten thousand eighty minutes, I am grateful.