A Horrible Discovery
I hate Interstitial Cystitis Awareness Month. Let me explain.
As I write this, it is raining outside. It’s been raining for days, and due to other reasons, I have not been able to take my dog for our morning walk for five days. It’s killing me and it’s turning him into a wind up toy your kid wound too tight.
In addition, I started working again and as part time as it is, I’m exhausted.
Then, I walked up to the grocery store the other day, and do you know what I saw sitting in front of it, amongst a pile full of mums? You’re going to be appalled. At least, you should be. It was gruesome. It was terrifying. It was so unfair. It was a pumpkin.
Friends. Listen. I know you love your Pumpkin Spice Lattes #PSL, and your pumpkin pie, and your chemically laden candles from Yankee with names like “pumpkin farts” and “ghost essence”, but I AM NOT READY!
Why can’t we just enjoy the seasons as they come? Why do we have to hop forward out of a perfectly good season? The only time I am ready to jump out of a season is around February 16th. Winter is a lazy, cruel, asshole and I can have it end anytime.
YOUNG LOVE
Here’s the thing: I LOVE fall. Or, at least I used to. My roommate in college, brought me to her church group one time. Her leader asked the typical “ice breaker” question to get people ready to spill their guts to strangers (I was maybe the only stranger).
I responded with “fall”. The leader couldn’t understand, so I explained “I feel closer to God in fall”. The leader still couldn’t understand. Way to break the ice? I realize this is a strange thing to remember from 15 years ago, but for some reason his (her?) lack of understanding bothered me enough to lodge itself as a memory I would recall almost every year, when the leaves start to fall.
So, let me explain it to you. Her leader is out there somewhere singing Jesus Loves Me, or Washed By the Blood of the Lamb, and will never get what I was saying, but at a least I have a chance to properly explain myself to you.
Before I had children, and before my bladder morphed into a beast, the crisp air of fall, combined with its smells and treats made me feel as if I was always moments away from a warm blanket and a cup of warm cider.
The cool breeze forces a tingle down your spine which only the most moving melodies or stories will do on a warm day.
The crunch of the leaves satisfies every angsty nerve in my body.
Fall is reading a good book, and smelling like a bonfire, and watching the trees paint themselves into a canvas of reds and oranges you forgot existed since last year.
THE AFFAIR
Right, so fall is great. But, so is summer. Summer means writing outside, drinking bubble waters, and sitting in my swimsuit, turning my skin colors which would enrage my dermatologist.
Summer is also when I started to heal, two years ago. I promised myself I would spend at least twenty minutes to an hour, as the kids napped, every day, on myself. I would write, and read, and slowly it felt as if my identity was being revealed.
I know it’s strange to “find one’s self” in their thirties, and it’s not like I was totally lost before, but I finally gave myself the opportunity to embrace the me I was despite whom everyone else wanted. And the me I was, and the me I am, is a sunflower. I follow the sun and I bask in it.
I love waking up to early light and sitting outside in the peace of it all, as birds fly up and eat the crumbs my kids dropped from their chicken nuggets the night before. I love trips to the pool, and camping excursions, and vacations to the beach.
I’ve mentioned this before, but I think the divine may have been confused when he placed me in the Midwest. I would be perfectly happy living near a beach for the rest of my life. Or in Spain. Even better, in the South of Spain – on a beach. I could live in Spain, without a beach, or another old village, as long as it had amazing pastries, chocolate, and wine.
Ok, I’ve wandered off topic again, and now I’m hungry, but my point is: summer helped me learn who I was, and it reminds me every year. I love the way it wraps you in its arms every time you step outside, and I’m already missing its embrace.
The Make-UP
In all likelihood, I am probably not moving anytime soon. This means I have to make amends with the changing seasons.
Fall and I broke up in 2015. It’s always an awkward moment when we see each other again. Like when you run into your ex at the mall and you pretend to be happy for one another, but really you just want out of the conversation as soon as possible.
I know I just talked about how great fall is. And it is. But we were on bad terms for a while, so coming back to it, with a positive attitude, proves difficult every year.
I’m not sure if any of you have tied a season to your illness, but if you have, you know how a season can become a trigger for the memory of trauma.
This is exactly what this time of year is for me. Summer fading to fall was when I walked into a urologist’s office a normal mom of three and walked out a stranger with a chronic illness.
It seems appropriate, then, that September is IC Awareness Month. I hate Interstitial Cystitis Awareness Month, but I’m working on cooling these negative feelings.
It’s taken years of medications, supplements, doctors, and most of all spiritual and emotional rebuilding, to get to the person I am now – Someone I actually like. However, this year, as much as I hate the overly eager fall decor, I am going to try to get back on good terms with my ex.
He’s still pretty great. We’ve just got some issues we need to work through. I’m not sure we’ll be able to get back to where we were, but at least we’ll get to the point where we can minimize conflict in front of the children (I’m still talking about fall – just to be clear).
What about you? Am I the only one who has attached previous trauma to a season?
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