Mirror work

I know it sucks, but I think we need to be present.

It’s 9:47 a.m. and so far, I have walked Rufus, picked up sour dough bread from the local bakery, grabbed a bundle of mail from my neglected mailbox, dropped my mail twice, once in the hallway walking back to my second-floor apartment, and once in the kitchen of my half-way packed up home. I only dropped the Amazon package once, I guess something in me knew I’d like that more than that stack of bills dressed in black ink in the shape of my first and last name. Opened the Amazon package only to remember I had a pretty intense love affair with the idea of making my own popsicles a few nights back in-between ugly “I HATE ENDOMETRIOSIS” cries and Goddess thoughts like life would be much-much better if I started making my own anti-inflammatory popsicles. So, now I have zero ingredients in my home to make those popsicles, but very cute pale pink popsicle sticks and container shapers for when I do make the trek to my number one hangout, the grocery store, to buy another set of items that may or may not wreak havoc on my body.

Two days ago, I canceled another job interview. An interview I could feel in my bones I was going to get if I took it— one of those 6th sense feelings. I’ve had them since I was a kid. They’ve never been wrong. The interview was for a job in Santa Barbara, California, the type of job I have been working for years to have the background and skillset and subsequently the student debt to get.

It was a chance to recapture my old life. (That’s what I had been telling myself all day every day.) I had convinced myself that by taking this job I’d magically be un-sick. By taking this job and moving back to town my illness expelled me from, I’d be taking my power back. Everything about these thoughts was intoxicating. (Key word there.)

But what I caught before the interview changed everything. It was Me, in the mirror. I caught the reflection of a woman who isn’t the same girl her Facebook Memories tells her she is. Gah, those Facebook memories. They make me both love and hate life in the same breath. I saw my tired eyes hanging lower than it seems they should in my head. I saw stress-swollen skin, puffy but not in a bouncy kind of way—instead, soft, worn and sleepy— like the face of a 38-year-old teddy bear. Then I felt the brain fog trickle in, the way it does every morning. A regularly scheduled occurrence inducted by a year of experimenting with different meds to find a remedy that is “just right” for managing an incurable diagnosis.

Today after the double-dropping of the mail, after the single drop of the popsicle sticks, and before walking to the stove to wash my hands, I sat down on my living room’s sunrise yellow couch for a video therapy session with my life raft AKA therapist. Since therapy is some sort of sacred, I’ll tell you only that I cried and cried and cried some more. And even at the last ‘final thought’ I always make her give me, I cried during that, too. I did, however, sniffle up my snot just enough to audibly tell her that what she said was indeed great advice.

Being in the midst of figuring out how to live with a disease can make you desperately, in my case excruciatingly, long for two things, two things you have no control over— your past and your future. No amount of Facebook or Instagram reminiscing will bring back those carefree days the way you long for them to. And no amount of dreaming for the future will make your body heal with superhero speed so you can become that imaginary all-powerful version of yourself. As much as I hate to say it, and I do hate to say it because right now I want anything but this, but here I go anyway, I think the key is to be present. Present in the yucks. Present in the pain. Present in the moments of joy. Present in the arrival of popsicle sticks. Present when you make your date brownies (date meaning the food not an actual human date to be clear here) to sneak into the movie theater and you realize what was once hard is now easy (baking these treats is the once hard thing in this case). Present when you pop those brownie balls into your mouth while your neighbor is eating your old choice of peanut M&Ms. Present in your pride and grief as you eat new you’s snack and you grieve old you’s carefree ability to not need to prepack snacks for the movie theater. I think the only way to become the real self you desire— the one who feels wholeness again is to be present with all the loss and not fade away to another timeline to pretend it’s not there. I also think the only way to return to wholeness is to be present with the gains, even the small ones, especially the small ones, because they are the sweet subtle building blocks of who you are becoming.

A few days ago, I found myself in the kitchen, green headphones in my ears, some kind of girlie jams chirping through the ear buds, me with a sharp knife and a cutting board, prepping my next anti-inflammatory meal. I was singing and chopping and gazing up at Rufus from time-to-time to see what he was up to and of course he was curled up on one of his 47 beds gazing back at me with his big brown I’ll-never-stop-loving-you eyes.

I didn’t miss this moment wishing I were the me from my past.

I didn’t miss this moment dreaming I were me in the future.

I didn’t miss this moment at all.

And, I can confidently say, not missing it is making a difference.

**Photo of me still struggling through this illness, hearing live music for the first time in maybe a year, exhausted, but present. <3