Several years ago this week, I did something pretty damned amazing. I should be aglow with kindled memories, the warmth of that day and all its symbolism stretching across the years to blanket me in a sense of peace and fulfillment. In this space of time and remembrance, I should feel happy.
I deserve to feel happy.
However, what I feel are the sting of being rendered the collateral damage of illogical thinking and the oppression of shouldering the burden of someone else’s well-intentioned, yet misguided actions. The vision of the day’s purity is tarnished by the imperfect circumstances under which those memories now live.
I have come to terms with the state of where things are now. I really have.
But this anniversary week–and that day in particular–does not fill me, as it should, with the sense of self-congratulatory pride over having successfully navigated a journey that few are equipped to make. This week once was the anchor that kept me mindful of all the things that have gone right in the past seven years. Now, the storm of all my heartaches has been compressed into one turbulent box, and this anniversary week is the shelf upon which it sits. I don’t argue with my psyche and the way it works; in my mind, it is more sensible to allow myself to be miserable during this special week about all the wrongs, and uplifted the rest of the year by all the rights.
I resent that this week has been depreciated in such a manner.
I resent that I have been depreciated in such a manner.
About most things, the Pollyanna that is my heart beats in stark contrast to and balances the scathing cynic that is my mind.
But no amount of this particular broken-apart world will fall together again.
And my heart, with all its colors and light, just doesn’t give a damn whether it will or won’t.