Sometimes Starting Over Just Sucks

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[Just so you know–bleaching and dying blue streaks into your hair should definitely be a two-person job. After all the work I put in I was supremely disappointed to see that only a few faded bits of blue showed up.  I’m going to try again another night when I have several hours to kill.]

I think I should start seeing another therapist.

The thing is, I have seen 6 or 7 therapists over the past few years, and none of them for more than a couple of months, max.  There were a couple I “fired”, but most of the time I ended up moving away before we could really get into anything helpful.

The thought of finding someone new, of having to tell my stories again, to re-explain everything and get us to a point where I feel like he/she knows where I’m coming from so we can actually start…the thought of doing all that again is exhausting.

It’s the same thing with making friends.  After 14 moves, I am just tired of starting over.  Tired of the weeks or months of “get to know you” small talk you have to wade through in order to even start to connect with someone.  Tired of making really great friends and then leaving them behind.

I hear the saccharine refrain of “Bloom where you’re planted!” echoing cheerily in my head, and I want to snap back, I’m tired of blooming!  I just want to keep my roots to myself and hang out in this pot.  Is that okay?  Can I just do that?  Do I have to make a rainbow out of every damn rainstorm that comes my way??

I probably should have given up pessimism for Lent.

 

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Does anyone else just want to do this all day, every day sometimes?   😉

 

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6 Years

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He left today.  I cried.

I didn’t think I would, but I did.

It’s not like we’ve never been apart before.  I know how to be alone.  I’m good at taking up a king-sized bed all by myself.  But he’s never been gone for more than a couple of weeks.

This is going to be more than a couple of weeks.  It hit me this morning, as I was watching him leave.  I think I’ll settle in, and it will hit me again in a month, when I realize he’s not coming home (yet).  Not for a while.

I can’t pretend to understand what military wives go through.  They have it so much worse.  Silas will most likely be able to come home for a weekend in October after I have the baby.  After that, I’m not sure if we’ll see him again until May.  It’s possible, but I don’t want to get my hopes up.  Dashed expectations are what fuel the fire of misery binges.

Today marks six years of marriage.  That’s decent, right?  Neither of us is particularly inclined to romance or sentimentality, but I was thinking about all the “milestones” we’ve hit over the past several years, all of the “if we can just get through”s.  All the times I thought things would get better, easier, after:

-I graduated massage therapy school

-I had the baby

-Silas passed the MCAT

-I had the other baby

-Silas graduated college

-podiatry school applications were in

-pod school interviews were done

-the first (“hardest”–HA) year of pod school was complete

-Silas passed part one of the board exams

-second year of pod school…third year…

 

Every single time we hit one of those, we thought, “Whew!  I’m so glad that’s over!”  As if the mountain was behind us.  (Spoiler alert: THE MOUNTAIN IS NEVER BEHIND YOU.)

And now he’s embarking on his 4th and final year, traveling around the country doing month-long audition rotations.  After this, things will get easier, right?  Ah, but then there is boards part 2, residency applications and interviews, residency itself (3 more years, baby!), finding a job, getting settled in his career….

So I guess things never get easier, not permanently at least.  They definitely get different–that, you can count on.

So for traveling this long and winding road with me, for trekking up and down all of those damn mountains, for going through hell and back and not giving up every time the next gigantic peak emerged in front of us; and for being the husband and father and man that we always need…

I love you, Silas.

Happy anniversary.