I’m sitting on the computer, eating garlic stuffed olives, and (shockingly) peaceful as can be for someone on the eve of their former anniversary, someone for whom dates have always been a very big deal.

“I don’t even remember those days anymore. someday you won’t either.” said my dear friend over the phone this evening. “sure. I can’t wait.” I replied, not believing it in the least. She’s getting married next year…to herself. At Burning Man. if there is a Burning Man, or indeed a next year at all. I admire that mentality, marrying oneself, immensely, although I’d most likely file for divorce after a bad fight with crazy-brain. Still, if there’s one thing I’ve learned in the last 6 months, it’s that if you can handle yourself, other people are no issue at all. Sure, going out would be nice. Certainly, I’m hating spending nights alone. But there is limited doom and gloom in my heart, and that’s a huge step forward for me.

Oscar is a big help in the heart department. He’s at my feet right now, chewing a bully stick and making them teeny needle-teeth work. I imagine that some of you, even the most loyal reader, was affronted at the idea of getting a new dog 3 days after Corms died. I couldn’t help it. Be it healthy or weird, possibly both, I define myself as a dog person (sorry Dante) and dog people have dogs. I also admit that I fantasized about picking out a new pup for MONTHS as Corms got older, and I refuse to feel guilty about that. It’s impossible to replace Cormac. That’s true. But picking out a puppy is possibly the funnest thing you can do in the world, so I was mournfully/hopefully looking forward to that. And then Oscar happened, out of the blue yonder of the local classifieds, and he was 6 lb (around 10 lb now) but with the personality of a REAL dog (yes, we’re all aware I’m size-ist about dogs), aaaaaand that’s how I got a lap dog. He will be able to come with me on an airplane and we will travel the world if it’s still around if/when planes are an option again. He may fall into a thimble and DROWN because he’s the smallest pup in existence, but by god, he will go with me on an airplane.

See? now I’m picturing Oscar paddling around the inside of a thimble and I’m much cheerier than I was starting this very belated blog. Dogs cure people, loyal reader. I would wager they have a much higher success rate than western medicine, in any case. I have a love/hate relationship with my meds, of course, well documented in this very journal. They keep me settled and mostly functional. They also kill my soul when the dosage is off, which is something my doctor *helps* me with, but it’s mostly my own job to do. Look at me, talking crap about the medical sciences twice in one paragraph.

Listen, medication is great. it keeps me alive. More accurately, it is one of the MANY tools I employ to keep myself alive. It’s not a ‘cure’, and it never could be, because what we have named ‘mental illness’ is a nebulous and ever-changing intangible thing that exists at the crossroads of chemistry and spirit. I couldn’t prescribe my lifestyle to any other person, not even any other bipolar person, or any other bipolar female person, or any bipolar female person in Utah, etc and so forth. My daily dance with my brain and body is something unique and fluid. I don’t always get the steps right, because there are no steps, and there is no such thing as ‘right’. There’s good times and hard times, and a lot of overlap.

So maybe today I had coffee and a protein shake and finally some olives, and maybe my body feels like crap because eating is important. Maybe today I realized my IUD has expired (but maybe not, is mirena a 5 year or 7 year thing nowadays? Why would I possibly have doubts about western medicine when there can be a two-year difference in efficacy based on where/when you get your IUD and whose opinion makes it into the ‘facts’ category? go figure.) and then I cried all lunch because this was supposed to be the last IUD, followed by babies with someone who I assumed loved me. And maybe all this conflated into the perfect storm of Hard Day feelings and I ended up blogging about it because going to sleep immediately following an olive binge and feeling sorry for myself seemed like it would lead to guaranteed bad dreams.

So. my methods are imperfect. I will admit that. I will wear that badge crookedly and proudly. But I must be doing something well, because despite the ever loving MADNESS of the planet/country/everything, I’m a fairly happy person right now. Hard Days don’t make that not exist. It’s almost taboo to say, but this has been an amazing year for me. I’ve grown and changed and literally faced my darkest fear, losing Cormac, and I DIDN’T DIE. It hurts, but I did it right, and I have no regrets. I gave the thing I love the most a beautiful life and an honorable death. That’s got to cheer up a girl on even the darkest days.

I could choose to stay up right now, and drift back into the feelings of loss and grief that overcome me when I think about getting another IUD (yes, I’m aware they can be removed at any time, thanks for the note), or I can do things and add elements to my evening to make the sorrow tolerable. One such thing was writing, and I admit that getting my writing to the eyes of a reader is at least half of the fun, if not more. I see the stats of my blog go up and up every time I get into the swing of writing regularly, and that feels very good. So maybe other people are an issue. Or, rather, a complement to my own self-care. Another thing to do would be to eat an actual meal, even though it’s late and I’m not hungry. I wasn’t hungry for those olives, but they were a pleasure to consume, so my appetite may be a bit off-kilter at the moment. (that’s a red flag for both depression AND anxiety, isn’t that adorable?) I can also take my meds, drink water, go to sleep, and choose to look forward to tomorrow.

I’m really ok, loyal reader, and I truly do hope these anniversaries fade away. They may not ever, and that would be alright, too. I’m happy. Just not feeling so great today. Like I said before, a lot of overlap.