Sometimes you find yourself cracking at the emergency vet office. It happens. At least, it happened to us.
Because it’s day six of your in-law’s visit and week five of house guests. It’s month nine of your depression and two hours into your puppy barfing repeatedly until all that’s left is bile and fear. You’ve been married a year and seven months and cancer-free a year and six months. It’s been fourteen weeks since one of your best friend’s died. Shit’s been happening. This is an understatement.
It’s hard to stay afloat when you feel like you’re drowning.
So sometimes you have a whisper fight in a room that smells of animal piss while you wait for your dog to get injections and you look at each other, raw, at the end of your rope, and decide to start kicking to the surface. Because when you said “I do” a year and seven months (and six days, technically speaking) you meant I WILL CHOOSE YOU even when life has sucked the joy right out of us and we’ve forgotten who we are, to ourselves and to each other. Because sometimes you have to decide you want to feel differently before anything can shift.
You can still be sad and carry on because, fuck, life is so short.
You’ve lost friends and time and parts of yourself but right now you are swimming and hearing only bits and pieces of the world as your head turns to breathe mid-stroke. But, hey, you are alive and you are moving forward. This is progress.