Rain, rain, go away.

If any of you are moon babies, or whatever you have to be in order to understand the pull of the universe and tides and astrology or whatever it is that's causing me to be a colossal bitch this week, could you message me? My panties are perpetually bunched up and it’s chafing my chi. And the people closest to me are the biggest triggers, which in turn makes them the biggest targets, too.

(Except, of course, Chicago. She knows I can be mad as hell but somehow never at her. It’s the best. Everyone should have a Chicago. Not MY Chicago, though. Go find your own. See? I’m back to being a bitch. Am I blowing your mind yet?)

I knew this week was going to catch up with me. I had a great birthday weekend, full of friends and good wishes. But as the week has progressed, I’ve become a little more pensive and a little more cranky. I’ve yelled at my kids (to be fair, they kind of deserved it), I’ve snarled at the husband (he may have deserved it too), and I’ve just been seething in general.

I think part of it is because the harder I try to stand tall and brave, the harder I have to try to stand tall and brave. And you know what? All the trying combined with all the end-of-year school assignments, and all the keeping the house clean and all the laundry and all the work and all the whatnot, leaves me wishing I was somewhere warm, drinking something cold, completely alone. (Chicago can come.)

Any place will do, as long as I’m not required to speak and nobody needs a snack, a signature, or a foot massage.

I want to sit in the sun and let it warm me. I want to wear a long sundress, and let my hair blow in the breeze. I want to feel relaxed and happy and carefree. I want to laugh really hard, all day. I want to be mischievous and spontaneous. I want my brow to be unfurrowed and I want a smile to be my default expression.

I want to turn away from the driving rain that hit last year, look at the horizon and meditate myself into happy oblivion. But even though I’m not facing it head on anymore, I can hear the rain falling, whispering sadly about everything that’s gone, trying to pull me away from everything that’s still here…everything I’m trying so hard to focus on.

Every drop that comes down is like a gentle, cold tap on the shoulder. A reminder. Tap. Tap tap. And though I’m trying (there’s that exhausting word again) to be quiet and still and warm, soon I’m drenched again and shivering.

Maybe the sadness flood is also the fuel for my bitch fire. I’ve turned away and it’s still all up on me. Is fighting to get away from whatever makes us sad unnatural? Should we just live in the sadness, and feel whatever it wants us to feel until one day we realize that without even trying we don’t feel that way anymore?

I obviously have no answers, people. I mean, I started this post off by asking you for help. I guess the one bad thing about designating a blog as therapy is that your therapist is perpetually silent. That and the whole admitting-to-everyone-who-reads-it that-I’m-a-huge-bitch thing.

Then again, most of you who read this probably know me and know what I’m capable of already.

Oddly comforting, really. Because that means there are a handful of therapists reading who will have a dry shirt ready for me when the rain hits. I also know a couple of shrinks who would gladly offer a dry Chardonnay instead (which more often than not, I’ll take over a t-shirt, thank you very much).

Even more reassuring is that in less than one week, I’ll be in actual Chicago. With my girl, Chicago. It’s the best therapy one half-wet, half-dry girl could ask for – like a new shirt and a cold drink all wrapped up in a warm, fuzzy, Midwestern bow.

In summary: You are my therapy and Chicago is my kryptonite, except she's good for me (and also she's not green).

I suppose that makes me SuperBitch, which means you’re off the hook no matter who you’ve snapped at this week.

You’re welcome.

45 and 11.

The first week of May used to be completely joyful, I swear. It’s my birthday! It’s Mother’s Day!! Spring has sprung!!! Nothing better than babies and flowers and the blessing of another year to celebrate (and lots of exclamation points), right? I don’t know what the universe is telling me, but this time of year has overwhelmingly become the Bermuda triangle in my life.

Let’s back up.

Last year, on May 3^rd, I celebrated my birthday. On May 6^th, my Mom went into the hospital for an outpatient procedure. There was an issue that caused her to bleed out on the table, which led to a Code Blue. They brought her back, took her into surgery, and thus began her long, painful, slippery slope. Two days later was the anniversary of my sister’s death, which I commemorated by basically begging her spirit not to take our Mom from me yet. And then came Mother’s Day, which after the prior several days, was emotionally supercharged to say the least.

I say all this now that I’m through it like I’m just ordering breakfast (I’ll have a Code Blue, a bleed out, and a dead sister please. Oh! And coffee.) but if you’ve been accosted by any number of the above things, you know just how much of a jolt each of them can be individually, let alone stacked up in a matter of days.

So this year, on the cusp of that memory-filled week, I find myself feeling funky and pensive. It’s kicking off with an interesting birthday because when my sister died, she was 45 years old and her daughter was eleven. It hits home more now than ever before, because in a couple of days I’ll be 45 years old too, and Eleven is, well…eleven. Eleven going on 16, but that’s another post entirely.

I’ve been thinking a lot about where Laura was in her life when she died, where I was in mine, what we had in common, and where I am now that I’m as old as she was when she left us. It’s an ongoing monologue in my head, filled with unanswered questions, hypotheticals and regret.

And as I consider my life and everything that has been keeping my head and heart heavy, something has become very clear.

I spent my entire 44^th year in emotional shackles.

Right after my birthday I had two days of decent, followed by seven long months of high-strung fear and fragility, where I fluctuated between worried, panicked and hysterical. Mom dying marked the end of that period, and also catapulted me into what has now been five months of wandering around in a grief-induced haze.

I think it’s safe to say that last year sucked balls.

I think it’s also safe to say that the universe is trying to open my eyes and shift my focus to something bigger. Or maybe something smaller. Or possibly just something ELSE.

Mom is gone, yes. I’m shattered by the loss, yes. I miss her every time I go to call her, yes. And when I call my Dad, leaving a message is nearly impossible after hearing her voice on their machine.

My sister is gone, yes. I am different than I would be if she hadn’t died, yes. I mourn the loss, and everything she’s missed, and everything I am missing about her, and it’s not lost on me that I am now where she was, at least in age and motherhood, when she died.

But. They are together. They are safe in heaven and they can see me and my niece and everyone else in the family from where they are.

Last year, I spent most of my time desperately trying to prolong someone else’s life.

This year, I think the universe/my Mom/my sister is telling me to spend most of my time trying to drum up a whole lot of happy.

I have the chance to do what my sister didn’t, which is see my daughter turn 12 while I enjoy my 45^th year. I have the opportunity to respect my body, and love the life it holds, the lives it’s created, and the life I share with the traveling husband. I am able to celebrate, and while the past year has held more dread than party, it’s time to Footloose it up and start dancing again.

I will still worry, mostly about my sweet Dad, and a little bit about the impending birds and bees talk I need to have with the girls (GULP).

But I will try this upcoming week to see each milestone as a chance to quietly acknowledge, and then purposefully step forward from, the sadness and heartache they bring. It’s with me, but it’s no longer all of me. I think I need to start year 45 with a renewed Clear Eyes, Full Heart, Can’t Lose mentality.

Also, cake. And maybe a teeny hangover.

Happy birthday to me.

xo