I'm a glass-half-full kinda gal.
Don't get me wrong, I can do bitter with the best of 'em - but when push comes to shove, or life comes to loss, my Hope Addict just needs a breather before she comes out swinging again. I bring this up today because so many of my friends have had a bad go of it lately. Mostly it isn't some fresh, heart-tearing trauma that's hurting them, but fatigue. Soul fatigue.
In honor of them, I wanted to throw out a life-line, for whatever it's worth.
The picture of my husband and me that adorns the corner of my blog is there for a reason. No, not to give the creepy navel-fetishists a chance to stalk me full-on. It's there because it captures one of the most genuine, happy moments of my life. Of our life. It's a "self-portrait" taken with a disposable camera on our first anniversary. We couldn't find anyone else to take a picture, so we took it upon ourselves. That night, after a fantastic dinner, we conceived our first son, Thomas.
That picture represents a time when I felt as full and whole and complete as I've ever felt in my life. We used that same camera to take pictures of ourselves and of Thomas during his brief baptism. A few weeks after he died, my mother took me to pick up the developed pictures. The difference between the two pictures, both on the same roll of film, speaks volumes about the depth of my suffering in that short amount of time. I told my mother that I doubted if I would ever see that woman again, the one who smiled out at me from the photo, beaming with life.
And as the world heaped more and more sorrow at our doorstep I became certain that she was lost for good. By the time we lost our last son, I was so crushed that I couldn't drive my car without blacking out and nearly killing myself. I bore no resemblance to my old self, and I mourned on behalf of my husband who had lost his wife in addition to his sons.
Fortunately for me, I got help. Dr. Luz forced me to tell a full accounting of all of my losses in one fell-swoop in my first visit to her and the sheer recognition of what had happened to me forced me to put on the breaks. I had to stop. Stop.
It was the best thing that ever happened to me. And all of my additional surgeries and necessary recover time turned out to be a blessing. I have had no choice but to sit still. And wouldn't you know it, I started to heal. I've kept the over-achieving perfectionist part of me well medicated and tied to a chair in the basement. And my Hope Addict, who took the opportunity to go into training as if for the Olympics, has begun knocking on my door with such ferocity that I now keep a tranquilizer dart gun locked and loaded by the front door.
But the best was yet to come: Last week I had to do something I haven't done in years. I had to have my picture taken. Part of my work as a freelancer requires that I market myself, which means I needed headshots. Yesterday I received the proof sheets. And wouldn't you know it... Hello there, stranger! It sure is good to see you again.
