Living as if every day were July 3

In many ways, I'm doing quite well. I recognize a feeling of forward momentum; I'm interested in many things, making ambitious plans, and excited about connecting with people. I have much of my energy back and feel like myself, like I did six years ago, before medical concerns steered us away from our normal lives.

At the same time, I am frequently suddenly overwhelmed by feelings of despair and anxiety. I don't have much warning for the storms, which wash through me and leave me exhausted. This, too, is familiar, but it's stronger and more unpredictable than I've felt in many months.

In the midst of all these anniversaries, Seattle is celebrating
Pride this weekend, and Pride brings its own set of memories.
In 2007, my friend Wendy visited us from Missouri for Pride
weekend, and we spent an afternoon on Alki. We rented one
of those goofy four-person pedal cars (I've no idea what
they're actually called) and had much fun together.

And the two are happening at the same time: I have great hope and ambition, positive feelings toward the future one moment, and then the next, I'm bereft and restless, certain that anything I do is futile. It's challenging for me to keep up with these changes, let alone ask the people around me to roll with them.

I suspect these waves will continue through late July, beyond the anniversary of Sandy's death. So I'm adjusting my expectations and my schedule. I have experience with that, as well.

On July 3, 1980, my father attempted to lure me into his van to take me away for a week when I'd expressly said I wanted to stay home. I could see what he was doing, and I slipped back into the house when he was distracted by an argument with my mother, but before I left, I'd heard my stepmother call out from the van in the driveway, "Grab her, Fred. You're bigger than she is." I hid; they left without me. I might have thought I'd made too much of the incident had my sister, who was in the van, not overheard my father and stepmother talking as they drove away. He explained to my stepmother that he'd discussed it with his attorney, who had advised him not to grab me; I needed to get into the van willingly.

I'm still appalled that he would discuss kidnapping his daughter with his attorney, as if it were a reasonable option. And I still have no idea why they wanted me with them; it wasn't as if they particularly liked me. But I was deeply traumatized that day, moreso than I recognized. A year later, I woke my sister when I was screaming with nightmares. For years afterwards, I behaved strangely on July 3, abruptly leaving gatherings with friends or falling into funks of despair. It was only in 1990 that I appreciated the anniversary, and looking back through old journals and diaries, I recognized the pattern. From that point on, I made sure I had flexibility on July 3 to do whatever I needed to do to take care of myself, and I prepared those around me for potentially erratic behavior. Each year, the hold the body memories had on me loosened, and in recent years, I've barely noticed the date.

But now, during this stretch of time, I need to give myself the same flexibility, the same permission to bolt or scream or break down, the same ability to be alone, that I've granted myself on many July 3rds. Since I realized that a few days ago, I've felt less adrift. The storms can come through me; I can relive anything I need to relive and remember hard things, integrating the experiences in a way I didn't have time to while I was living them. And I can warn the people around me that I'm erratic, unpredictable, but also going to be okay.

These body memories are powerful, but because I know that the events of July 3, 1980, eventually became simply memories, I can also move through this period confident that each year this stretch of time will be a little easier, until the pain and despair of 2011 are also simply memories. And because my sense of Sandy continues to grow stronger, separate from the pain, I believe I can lose the anguish without losing her.