Lesbian log twenty-two-zero-six-twenty-one
Yesterday was a pretty down day. I say that, but in truth it was just another day in a full calendar of down days. I described it as being frozen in time, mired in a tar pit of despair. Darkness has been a constant companion for a couple years now. I’ve tried in fits and starts to snap out of it and claw my way out of the pit, but it’s been difficult and discouraging. There are moments when the sun shines and I think the mud is drying out. And I’m happy. For a moment. But then the clouds come, filled with punishing rain and no matter how hard I try, I can’t escape the sucking pull of the mud, and the pain engulfs me time and time again.
Last night, however, something changed. As I lay awake, insomnia another constant companion, I was rewarded with a reason to hope, well, a scratchy outline of hope at least.
I had a vision of boots, specifically a well-worn, well-loved pair of old rubber boots. They were mired in the mud—one of those thick, squelching bogs—sunk to the upper, and they had been abandoned.
I realized in that moment, I was the boots. In order to become unstuck, I needed to leave them there, frozen in time and choose a new path. I need to sidestep the muck completely.
I had been a North-going Zax, stubbornly trying to force and muscle my way through the pain and guilt of my past. I couldn’t keep going. I had to surrender. I had to leave the boots where they were, firmly entrenched in the past, and give myself permission to let go.
I needed to step into the light of a new future. I needed sandals. I needed to walk in the warm sand. I needed to feel the sun on my face again.
This is not about forgetting my past. The past made me who I am and I am richer for the wonderful people and loving things and relationships created, but it does mean I can’t stay there any longer.
My wonderful therapist told me I deserve happiness. When she said it, I swallowed back tears of disbelief. How could I accept happiness, how could I allow joy when those I love were hurting. It was an impossible task.
But she reminded me that staying in the darkness, staying mired in the mud is a choice. It’s not easy to see when you’re knee deep in steaming shit, but at some point we all have to make the choice to empower ourselves to accept change and let go.
My ex needed to do it, and so did I. We were on this journey because we both deserved to be happy. We both deserved to feel whole. The road has been long. It’s been hell. For both of us. We loved deeply and cared exponentially. The slow, tortuous pull apart has been tragic and heart wrenching. But here we are. Both of us at a crossroad. Both of us with some choices to make. We both need to move on. But that means letting the past, letting each other go.
My situation hasn’t changed. But today I made the decision to change my perspective. Yesterday, I was mired in mud, unable to break free of pain. Today, I chose to step out of those steadfast ole boots, scramble to the shore, pull off my wet, muddy socks and slip into a pair of welcoming, comfortable sandals. I made a concerted effort to shift and move toward a new outlook.
I made it onto the treadmill this morning. A small but mighty feat. Motivation crippled by depression has blocked any attempts at trying to scale the heights of better mental health. But today, with a new, possibly hopeful mindset, I managed a small triumph. Today, I climbed a molehill.
Tomorrow, I’ll look ahead to the mountains.
In gratitude,
Marissa