This is a story about a girl named, Lucky.
This is a story about me.
I know, I know, it’s hard to believe, right? It’s hard to imagine that through all of the drama, and the gaslighting of the last few years, I would consider myself lucky, but I do.
The past few weeks, months, hell, even years have tested me. But, lately, I’ve had to drudge up feelings that to protect myself and my daily life, I had buried deep, far back into the recesses of my mind. Confronting them has been challenging; I hadn’t been prepared for the mental anguish of it all. I honestly thought I was over it because I’ve been living a relatively happy life. But going through everything and acknowledging and accepting what happened is rough, and it’s been taking its toll.
When I returned from Dublin last month, I felt an emptiness I wasn’t prepared for. Even though the trip was for a disturbing purpose, I had been “home” surrounded by my family and old friends. I was back in the city that made me, and it had felt wonderful. Stepping back into reality in my sad studio in New York, not so much.
After chatting it over with my family and work, we all agreed that I needed a couple of weeks back there again because processing what I had been through should not be tackled alone. So thanks to my lucky life, off I went.
I dropped Fifty off in the Berkshires for two weeks at my sister’s, where he would be lovingly looked after. (Let it be said that free room and board for your pet in a loving home should never be taken for granted. Never ever.) Then I headed to Newark.
My retired flight attendant Godmother had listed me on a flight to Dublin, and once again, my free-flying self was upgraded. I binged 1883, took all the champagne on offer, and giddily constructed my ice cream sundae when the cart rolled by. (Say it with me… LUCKY.)
A short taxi ride after landing, and only a couple of weeks after leaving, I was back in front of the fire at my Auntie’s, cup of Barry’s tea in hand while breakfast was set out on the table. A full belly later and I was tucked up under the heated blanket in a bed I have slept in since I was a wee one. I sunk into the sheets with sighs of contentment; it was good to be home.
After a few days of family and friend catch-ups, and I was on a plane headed towards Spain to stay at my mother’s in Malaga. My Scottish cousin Dee lives there as well, and the two of them were waiting at the airport ready to greet me and stuff me full of Iberian ham and wine.
A week of walks along the Mediterranean, strolling the streets of old town Malaga, and after many episodes of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire en español, I felt refreshed, recharged, and ready to return to dealing with the demons and damage left behind by my husband.
(What does one say about Malaga? I know what I’ll say; I’d like to live there… Watch this space.)
So with two weeks of a much needed working R&R behind me, I can tell you I’m very lucky indeed. I have a boss who lets me work from anywhere, a sister willing to take care of Fifty, a godmother that gives me non-rev flying privileges, an aunt and uncle who make their home mine, a cousin in Spain that is always game for taxi duty, and a very supportive mother that happens to live on the Med.
So yeah, I’ve got stuff — A LOT. But damn, I’ve got a whole other lot, you know? But that’s the thing. That’s the trick. You look for the light. You look for the bright. And as Mr. Rogers said, you look for the helpers.
Thank you, helpers. (I’m looking at you too.)
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