Friends, I had such big plans for 2022, I really did. I intended to throw myself into this year with enthusiasm and gusto, riding high because LIFE WAS GREAT. We’d weathered COVID without contracting the virus, my relationships were good with the kids and the dude and our family and friends, the kids were enjoying school, and I had a job I liked and a house full of happy chaos.
I’m not saying that any of that was fake, because it wasn’t. But I’d call it a temporary high.
January rolled in and laughed at me like Ursula the sea witch from The Little Mermaid. I don’t know how else to put it; it is as if reality stepped in and in it’s loudest Ursula voice, said “I’m a very busy woman and I haven’t got all day. It won’t cost much. Just your voice!”
And with that, I was silenced. This blog kind of died, as did my Facebook page, and so did I. Why? Because after two years of the pandemic, I found myself in a place where my resilience was dried up. And just as that happened, we got COVID and a boatload of life drama (please tell me you caught the ocean theme there, with the boat…. haha).
Omicron, The Motherfucker
I don’t need to tell you how or why we got Omicron, after two years of diligence. Masks, and vaccines, and boosters, and more masks, and then KN95 masks, and hand washing – and yet that motherfucker Omicron got into my house. Did we catch on to its sneaky self in time? No. We had a full weekend of sneezing and coughing around here before a home test showed positive.
First it hit Brett, and then, a full two weeks later, it hit me. It wasn’t that bad, honestly. It was like two days of a bad cold and brain fog. But it took January away, fully. I didn’t feel like doing much except keeping my head down and earning a paycheck so I could pay my mortgage.
February came and with it came some personal drama that I really can’t share here. It was THAT BAD. It might not have been THAT BAD a few years ago, but it was THAT BAD now because I had no reserves left to handle drama anymore. After two years of pandemic madness, I was stripped down to the bone. I found myself, and find myself, willing to burn my entire house down to the ground in order to rise again. That’s how serious it felt, and how seriously I took it.
Why am I sharing this?
Some might wonder why I’m moping about in a blog post, like this. Why am I sharing all of this gloom and doom? I am doing it because I can’t be alone. I have reached the point where my filter is off, and I am bringing my most real self to work, and parenthood, and partnering that I have ever brought. And it’s not pretty. The funniest, most ironic part about all of this is that tomorrow morning at the crack of the ass crack of dawn, we will get on an airplane and fly to Disney World, in Orlando Florida… the happiest place on earth.
Friends, the timing of this trip and the drama leading up to it is … chef’s kiss. Disney World is like the Bermuda triangle of my own trauma, because it’s where my father took me when I had court-ordered (forced) visits with him and my then step-mother. There are so many emotions tied up in that little fucker named Mickey Mouse, that I just… wow.
My father disappeared when I turned 18, and it feels as if the universe is having fun with me now, at the age of 45. We’re going to Disney World because it is Brett’s happiest place on earth. Isn’t life just that incredibly twisted? That I would partner up with someone who loves the place I hate? It really is.
Anyhoo – you’re going to see a bunch of happy pictures from this week ahead. Good beverages, big coffees, kids on roller coasters, and sun. I’ll share them, because they are real and true. But I’ll be actively working to reprogram my brain while I’m there – so that I don’t let the trauma terrorists win. That’s about as real as it gets.