So apparently I don’t blog much in the winter. It’s long. And gray. And dark. And cold. And a little bit like the movie Groundhog Day, in that we just seem to keep getting up and doing it all over again. Don’t get me wrong. Life is good. Quite good bordering on excellent for the moment, as I contemplate heading to bed for one of our last five sleeps before we finally go on our long-delayed honeymoon.
It’s just not interesting. I don’t have a lot to say, because between the last post in November and when I pulled up the blank white space to type this post, not much has happened. As the nights grew long and the days short, my fitness efforts stalled out a bit. It finally got soul-crushingly cold. And it finally started snowing. There have been some laughs along the way with my my husband, my best friend, the person who’s the only reason why I know what it feels like to pull in a double lungful of -30°C (-22°F) air. And there have been some parties with friends, where food and drink were shared and the walls echoed with voices raised in merriment. And there have been some Skype dance parties, bridging the distance between the Saguenay and Brooklyn. There have also been some tears. Not a lot, but some.
Life is easier now that I get without too much difficulty in French. But it’s still not effortless like it was at certain times in the past. I still really don’t have a place here. And I can’t help but look forward to a time when I find myself in a place where it’s easier to be me, where life is bigger and fuller.
It’s not all bad, by any means. I’m fiercely proud of what I *have* been able to do here. I’ve battled depression to a draw and got moving again (a couple of times). I’ve given up, and gotten soft and fat, and yet I’ve managed to find my stride again. I’ve lost 43 pounds since May of last year. I’m seeing the benefits of months of work. and hard decisions, and willpower, and struggles, and tiny failures, and smaller victories, and I’m finally starting to feel strong and NOT fat again. I found a job and am now working full-time in a French environment. That all adds up to something.
Most of all, I’ve learned something. Something about what I share with that husband guy. Some of the tears I’ve cried over these past two and a half years were tears of fear. I was terrified that he alone could not be enough for me, and I alone could not be enough for him. That not having a lot outside of the home we’ve made together would tear us apart. That my depression and my being lost would poison this amazing thing we have between us. I’ve learned that, while we’re happiest when life is fuller, when we have more to do, more people in our lives, a life that fits us better…we’re happy with each other. Even when it’s rough, and even when there’s no end in sight, and even when we’re weak. We’re happy with each other.
Knowing that, given the crazy life I’ve slipped into with him, is priceless.