Calendar Girls: The Posts of 2007

This year, 2007, was among the most turbulent, most emotional, most awful years of my life. Amidst the chaos and the despair, there were, of course, some bright shining moments of euphoria, like Dillon's grand entrance into the world - which changed everything about our lives. And on top of that, I decided to change virtually everything about my own life.

Looking back through the posts of '07, I realized just how much I've been through, and how much I've grown. And changed. And cried. And I figured the only way to review '07 was through the posts that said it best, brought to you by the calendar girls of the year.

Right now, I'm looking at 24 more hours in the year, and I'm not sorry to be closing the books on this one. I'll be holding my breath as the clock ticks toward midnight tomorrow that '08 will turn out to be a better year. Happy New Year, y'all.

January: A Very Happy Announcement



February: My Life the Democracy


March: Georgia on My Mind


April: Leaving: Part One



May: Taking the Long Way (or the Unplan Plan)



June: The Girl Who Lived


July: (Untitled)


August: Sister Mary Sunshine Gets Sucker Punched



September: Handle It


October: Shoreline
November: On Meeting People



December: Bones

Don't Call It A Comeback

Quietly, cautiously, I mark off the fifteenth day. The incessant hum in my brain seems to be lessening...a distant buzz. My heart is calm, its regular steady pulse instead of an erratic skid. Slumber goes on uninterrupted, and my biorhythms seem to have time to sink into the dark quiet instead of dancing around while I have my eyes closed.

And aside from that, life is getting, perhaps, easier? It is easier to breathe. And to laugh. And to make it through the day without thinking about purposefully stepping out into oncoming traffic.

At the same time, I'm afraid to consider this thing knocked out. Is it just wishful thinking? Is it just a blissful placebo effect? Or is it truly down for the count? One thing is for sure - if it comes back at me, the gloves are coming off.

Jellyfish

One Week Later, I am a jellyfish. A soft translucent membrane, weightless in cool indigo water. I ascend slowly and concentrate on the movement of air and water: in and out, in and out. Sound is a thick murmur. Light is a quick flicker.

Below me trail tentacles, streamers of sensation and feeling. They dangle quietly, waiting. I have finally gathered these moments of tranquility, but there is still the threat that, though hanging idle, those tentacles will tangle with some mysterious something, electrify and strike.

Hotwired

On Monday, I sit through the staff meeting jonesing to get out of my skin. I can almost hear my thoughts accelerating, chipmunking like a record played at too-high RPM. The sunlight in the conference room is bright; I laugh too loud. And I feel like everyone can tell that I am different.

On Tuesday, I sit at my desk fighting sleep. Not just I didn't get enough sleep last night nodding. Drugged sandbag eyelid sleepy. I lean my face into my hand, shielding my eyes from the door, so that it looks to a casual passerby like I'm reading the screen intently. I fall asleep for five to ten minutes.

On Wednesday, I am in a meeting an I am talking and in the middle of the sentence, I falter...the thread I was following goes down a rabbit hole...but I keep talking and I have no idea if I am making sense. I stop talking and everyone looks like they understand, but I don't.

On Thursday, I get out of the bed and it starts: fingers trembling (it's hard to put in contacts) and pulse racing and the nausea. And I take breaks - sit down between the shower and drying my hair, taking deep breaths.

And somewhere in my brain, the wires are crossing, the sparks are flying, the motor is revving, and I'm going...whether I want to or not.

Side Effects: Mercy

When I was little, Justin and I used to play a game we called "Mercy." Mercy involved bending the other player's hand back at the wrist in an effort to touch the fingers to the forearm - until the pain became too much and the player called, "Mercy!"

Mercy meant "Stop, it's hurting too much." Mercy meant, "You with the upper hand, please take pity on me." Mercy meant, "I can't take anymore." Mercy meant, "I give up - you win." Mercy was about finding a threshold, the fine line between tolerance and intolerance. Mercy was a plea.

And now, I find myself emotionally bent backwards. Just when I thought the worst was over, I feel my fingers touching my forearm, everything in my wrist tight to the point of breaking.

Mercy. Please, please, mercy.