It is totally common to have parts of the year that fuck you up. Birthdays, New Years, the anniversary of a death. It happens to depressed people. It happens to totally healthy people who’ve suffered a traumatic loss. It happens to a lot of us who would normally have a very clear mind about whether the anniversary of a person’s death makes them more dead.
The date is a trigger. Like funerals, like violence, like anything that takes you out of where you are and thuds you down in the middle of some shitty past event. Then the anniversary itself is kind of traumatic, and, for me anyway, the date amasses bad experiences and connotations until the month or two leading up to it are filled with an overwhelming sense of dread.
That kind of anniversary becomes a fucking beach party for all sorts of unresolved little mind monsters. It’s spring break and they’re out in force, shocking their parents and appalling their more responsible peers.
The mind monsters are myriad and you can’t tackle them all at once. It can be impossible to even approach them when they’re all riled up like that. Sometimes the anniversary is the worst time to address the underlying issue. (I’m not thinking clearly right now. I don’t have to solve this today.)
This year I’m working on letting the anniversary pass. Then, when the monsters are back home, in bed, surrounded by calmer thoughts, we’ll sit down, as gently as possible, and we’ll have a chat.
In the meantime, the anniversary will pass.
Photo from TheMetaPicture