wholeheartedly

I velcroed a dry erase calendar to the North wall in my kitchen. Each month, I gently tug it off to reset and prepare. I always write affirmations on it, as I move through the days. Comforting words, reminders, things I believe, things I want to believe. I do believe in life. Whatever the hell is going on here. Cool shit does happen. But my brain cannot process the pain. My brain cannot process the terror. My brain cannot process the love. My brain cannot process the time.

I have this recurring thought that nothing matters and everything matters at the same time. From a mental health perspective, this could be distilled down to a trauma response. Everything feels like too much, so I go numb. Or everything feels like too much, so I worry. About everything. Then I go numb. About everything.

“Keep believing!” The letters on the whiteboard are almost too far away for my 34-year-old vision, but the message soars pointedly through the doorway into my eyes. I can’t stop looking at it, and even when I blink, I can still see it. There’s a heart next to it. (I use those instead of bullet points.) I chose black ink for this one.

It’s harder to see the other messages – the ones written in green, orange, purple, and blue. If I squint hard enough, I can remember. I can remember how I felt when I wrote them. Well, not every feeling. But I can zoom out and see myself, hunched over to carefully angle each marker parallel to the ground. Balancing my weight, pausing my breath, desperate for access. Access to a message that got through to me. Or a message that I need to get through to me.

Access may not be a feeling, but it is an experience. One that I treasure.

My calendar next month is empty.