The Ides of March
The difference between turning 35 and 36.
"What a difference a year can make," is the understatement of the century for me.
I like to prove it to myself by looking back through my journal at this time last year. I do it almost every time I sit down to write. I write about today, then I look back at last year's today. Maybe even the today from 5 years ago or 8 years ago.
I look at all the days surrounding this one that I'm on. What was I doing, who was I with, what was I worried about, crying about, excited about, stressed about, all of it. Some of them make me smile. A lot of them make me cringe.
And this time last year was the beginning of an end.
A relationship was ending as it very well should have. But as a result, I was entering a season of deep depression and intense anxiety — the kind I had never really experienced before. I was hovering on the edge, about to fall into a dark pit where I couldn't get out of bed in the mornings, I was ignoring my work life, and I was doing the bare minimum as a parent to keep the kid alive. I was overwhelmed with grief, riddled with anxiety, and second-guessing everything all the time. I started having panic attacks where I was afraid to fall asleep, fearing I would literally never wake up. I wondered if my daughter knew how to call 911.
During those episodes, I was disassociating from reality, almost watching myself from above, unable to engage. The first time I had one, I called my mom (a nurse) and asked her to come over and take my vitals, because something was definitely wrong with me. She kindly did so, and also brought me the book The Body Keeps The Score, which I had already read but promptly forgot. You're not dying, sweetie, I remember her saying, you're having a panic attack. My body was most definitely keeping the score. I knew it was irrational to think I was dying, and at the same time it was absolutely real. (I am still learning the lesson of holding two things at once.)
Is it weird to say I feel the weight of this time last year, right now, simply because it’s the same time of year? Something about living through these same dates again feels heavy and hard to put down. Can you be nostalgic about something you don't want back? But what isn't burned into my brain lives in the pages of my journal, so there's no need to keep dragging it around.
So here I sit in this March, looking back at last March. And these two Marches couldn't be more different.
In one, I turned 35 and was surrounded by chaos and fake certainty.
In the other, I turned 36 peacefully grounded in who I am and what I want.
Maybe something happens each year when we round the corner to the same time — it's like crumbs have been left to remind you what was there before. Not just on-this-day photo memories that your phone tries to flash in your face, but invisible things like emotions and expectations.
I can obviously flip through a journal and read about that old version, but there's something about turning your head as you watch it go by, knowing that old you is getting even further away. The remembering doesn’t break me like it used to. I can see her, feel her, acknowledge what I learned from her, and tip my hat as I turn back to face forward. It’s like passing an old acquaintance on the street and nodding silently at each other.
Your iterations are new again and again and again — what a relief.
(Pssst. Might I suggest writing them down, so your new ones can wince at your old ones?)
That's what keeps me writing and journaling most of the time — knowing that in 365 days, I’ll watch myself from above. I'll either smile or cringe at what I've written about today. The moments and thoughts I choose to record, whether mundane or magical, will serve as a bookmark in time for next year's me. Where will she be then? Who will be in her orbit? Will she have to crawl out of any pits, or will it be more mountain tops this time? (Please be mountains, please be mountains…)
What difference will this year make, and who will be there to see it?
Thank you for this post, Kelsey. I, too, love to revisit old journal entries and thinking about how things have shifted and changed over time. A year ago, I was in the throes of my breast cancer journey and though I've been in remission since mid-summer, I've recently I've been experiencing a lot of different chronic illness-type issues that are coming out of seemingly nowhere but I suspect are my body processing alllllll of the trauma it faced.
Your line: "Is it weird to say I feel the weight of this time last year, right now, simply because it’s the same time of year?" resonated deeply with me. I'm simultaneously *so* grateful to be in a different place than I was this time last year and yet, some of the threads still remain.
I totally relate to looking back on something that you don’t want back but reminiscing about it. It’s like pressing a bruise. Sometimes it feels good just to feel the pain a little but to remind you of how good you feel now.