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Today is the third anniversary of the fire that yanked my life back into shape. I would've never known that people could be so kind, care so much. The aftermath was nearly comical, like "Miracle on 34th Street"* had a head-on collision with "It's a Wonderful Life" and "Ferris Bueller's Day Off."
I have to share that sleeping through something painful is like getting drunk to get through something painful: eventually you wake up or sober up and the pain is still there. I took to my bed with the vapors. When I woke up, it was still fucking September 6th. Sleep only knits up so much ravel'd sleave of care.
Inescapable, so I got my alive and ingracious ass out of bed to write this thank-you.
The fire was the worst and best thing that ever happened. I lost everything. I still miss my dog Yuki, every time I see bubbles or rain. (But not when I pick up dog turds.) I knew what I wanted to do with my life. I knew what I didn't want to do with my life. I went to the doctor to be treated for PTSD and got a diagnosis of bi-polar disorder, which saved me, and taught me to be strong in the face of disapproval.
I built an IKEA kitchen in my Barbie Dream House and knew, for the first time in my life, that I was competent and accomplished. Not dizzy, dumb or helpless, like I'd believed before that. There's just something about not having hundreds of pounds of woods and glass fall off the wall to put a spring in a girl's step, make her maddenly, beautifully independent, and free her from years of being the embodiment of other's opinions and ill needs.
Needless to say, I recommend power tools to any woman or girl needing self-esteem. Yes, there's a joke in there.
So, to all my friends and angels and fellow fire survivors Carla and Lance Hoffman, Karen Ellis, and Len Wein and Christine Valada, much strength and love.
"Hey, another year it gets further away from the awesome now." -Carla Hoffman
I have to share that sleeping through something painful is like getting drunk to get through something painful: eventually you wake up or sober up and the pain is still there. I took to my bed with the vapors. When I woke up, it was still fucking September 6th. Sleep only knits up so much ravel'd sleave of care.
Inescapable, so I got my alive and ingracious ass out of bed to write this thank-you.
The fire was the worst and best thing that ever happened. I lost everything. I still miss my dog Yuki, every time I see bubbles or rain. (But not when I pick up dog turds.) I knew what I wanted to do with my life. I knew what I didn't want to do with my life. I went to the doctor to be treated for PTSD and got a diagnosis of bi-polar disorder, which saved me, and taught me to be strong in the face of disapproval.
I built an IKEA kitchen in my Barbie Dream House and knew, for the first time in my life, that I was competent and accomplished. Not dizzy, dumb or helpless, like I'd believed before that. There's just something about not having hundreds of pounds of woods and glass fall off the wall to put a spring in a girl's step, make her maddenly, beautifully independent, and free her from years of being the embodiment of other's opinions and ill needs.
Needless to say, I recommend power tools to any woman or girl needing self-esteem. Yes, there's a joke in there.
So, to all my friends and angels and fellow fire survivors Carla and Lance Hoffman, Karen Ellis, and Len Wein and Christine Valada, much strength and love.
"Hey, another year it gets further away from the awesome now." -Carla Hoffman
