On Saturday, July 10th, I’ll be at my parents’ house surrounded by family and friends celebrating my marriage to the man I plan to spend the rest of my life with. My husband. My soulmate. My saving grace. My Robert.
It’s been over nine months since we actually got married and I still have a hard time wrapping my brain around the fact that I’m MARRIED.
Holy crap. How the hell did that happen?
Three years ago, I was four months into my journey of beginning to treat my depression and anxiety, still trying to figure out where I was even going with treatment, still trying to find something that would produce results, still hating everything in general, and had long since resigned myself to being single for the rest of my life. I think I probably told my (then new) therapist as much. If someone had told me then that in three short years I’d be married, I’d have been convinced they were on crack. I would have told them so and to be on with their merry way, please and thank you, you crazy whack job.
But here I am.
Happier and healthier than I have ever been in my life. Married to the greatest man I have ever met. And while my life is far from perfect and I still have a long way to go in terms of my mental health, I can’t really ask for anything more.
In the meantime, I stress myself out over last minute party details. I have myself completely convinced that I’m forgetting something important. I have a lot I still need to get done this week. I’m pretty sure there are people I forgot to invite. I am so NOT a party planner.
I guess I’ll find out Saturday. When party time rolls around and guests start to arrive and that one detail I forgot to take care of comes to light and slaps me in the face.
Because I’m an optimist like that.
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Dyslexic Heart Paul Westerberg |