Some Punk Kid With Nothing To Celebrate

I used to wonder why we celebrate anniversaries. It felt arbitrary or self-indulgent, kind of a reason to not have gratitude the other 364, ya know? Our little floating rock’s position relative to the sun didn’t matter to me. I was just some punk kid with nothing to celebrate.

But then I started living through them–the years I mean. A year since I was flown to the hospital. A year since I left residential treatment. A year since I moved to Boulder. I didn’t celebrate so much as glaze over these days with a pseudo-celebratory tweet. I didn’t feel the weight of time, its importance, at all. But I started to notice them pass.

I bring this up, dear sweet reader, because today marks one year since I stopped doing daily treatment, and I have some feelings about it. I’ve been living my life for a year. A whole turn around the sun, man. The whole thing. Under my own power. Feeding my damn self. Staying alive.

That’s cool to me. 

SO! In honor of a year of freedom, I feel like maybe some kind of story is in order? A list of the times I felt powerful enough to start a cult? The time I was half passed out in a stretcher while an EMT vomited? Maybe the time I went to get the mail and saw a drunk guy asleep on my porch? (Complete stranger as well, like totally just passed out there walking home. Grown man. I left him a bag of snacks and carried on.)

ANYWAY. 

Maybe I’ll talk about chess, and how I’m just still so damn. BUT! That  I keep trying because it’s more about the person you’re playing. 

But I’m celebrating. I won’t self-deprecate tonight. Instead, my dear, insanely beautiful reader, I’ll tell you about a text from my mom that I got this evening. 

It said, “I hope you’re enjoying the life you’ve created.”

To avoid being mushy, I won’t well up in front of you. I will say, though, that I never thought I’d read that. 

My mom saw me in so many hospital rooms, through so many meals. So many breakdowns and appointments and “not looking good” conversations. But tonight, she said simply and sincerely, that she hoped I was happy. 

Happiness these days feels almost wrong–dismissive in a way. I think the more appropriate word is “capable”. I am capable of living a life that I am proud of–of being a person in this world. I am ready for whatever’s next. I’m ready, truly.

Dear reader, I think that maybe with this capability comes some kind of freedom. I want so much for you to feel capable of existing in this fucked up world in a way that feels important and real to you. 

I don’t love my body. In fact, I despise it. But I know that living this life is just so much more fucking important than starving myself to feel safe. Safety is such an illusion. It’s connection that’s real, yeah? And it’s leaning into what you’ve got.

Dear reader, my lovely friend, I hope you feel capable. I hope you are enjoying the life you’ve made for yourself, whatever that looks like.

All my love–every bit of it,

Allison