There was a moment not long ago when I reached an acceptance with reality. In the twilight gloam of the last two years of my life I've struggled so much with my own fairy tale concept of karma. My somewhat childish belief in good things happening to good people has been crushed, and holding onto it has been difficult. I feel as though I've spent a lot of the last twelve months, after the shock had worn off, in splayed supplication to the universe; on my knees in the mud, hands up and palms out, tears on my cheeks washed away by pouring rain. Begging... 'Show me faith. If karma exists, if there is a balance, then present me with evidence. Please. I need to see it, feel it for myself.'
And the universe, all ominous storm clouds and uncaring grey skies, said nothing.
It wasn't until I had some kind of epiphany, one so basic I'm almost loathe to admit it. But in truth I had never considered that it doesn't have to be one way, or the other. Maybe it's more of an equilibrium. You can live your whole life with the most minimal up and downs, the most unremarkable of tragedies and triumphs.
Or you live big and full, taking massive unladylike bites of every day and letting the juice of them run down your chin. You will hurt deeply, with every atom of your soul, and some of your nights will be very, very dark, swallowing all the light there is. And where there is night, there will be a sunset.
But where there is sunset, there is always a sunrise. And if your nights are dark, then sometimes– not always, of course, but some days– your sunrises will be breathtakingly beautiful.
The sun feels as though it's shining here, a golden warm light on my face after so many months in the dark. I'm watching a list of Good Things pile up, the weight of them beginning to even out all the Bad Things on the other side. It's preparing for Borneo. It's feeling content. It's finally meeting Someone who isn't terrified of real life, of my life. It's writing, and feeling myself get better at it, reading it back and wondering where on earth those structured sentences came from anyway.
It's finally loving my kids as my own again, feeling as though we're in sync... feeling as though I understand them again.
It may not seem like much at all, but in light of everything... I'll take it.
***
Two years.
I have an answer now, to a question I've only been asked once or twice. "How long, till you felt better again?"
The answer, truth until now, would come from my mouth unbidden and unwanted- I didn't want to say it, no one wanted to hear to it, yet there it was. A screaming, bawling, bloody overgrown truth, disfigured and horrid and staining everything around it as it writhed in pain out in the open, exposed to fresh air and scrutiny. "I'm don't feel better. It hasn't happened yet."
I'm not saying I feel awesome, or that I'm suddenly Suzy Sunshine and life's roses. But the oddest thing has happened lately.
I've forgotten to remember I feel different. I've forgotten to remember that I thought this would define me forever.
I feel like myself again. And feeling like myself... that's not really that great, either- I've never been a big fan of me.
But it's better than not knowing who I am at all.
Two years, or thereabouts... to shell out someone's soul, and have it feel as though it's beginning to grow again,
Two years.
It's been a very, very long time.