Most of Friday was not a good day. Remember when I said in my last post that none of this is easy? That doesn't negate the truth that I am glad to be starting a new life, but to quote a new hero of mine, "Hard is hard." And this shit is hard sometimes.
As you might imagine, PTSD and depression are not improved by the fear of impending homelessness, and it took me a while to get around to doing anything but lying in bed this morning. The first thing of value that started off my day was talking to my SuperPreschooler on FaceTime. I held it together--more or less--until we signed off, then I did a lot of crying. After that, I called a Crisis Hotline. This brings us up to about 4:30 pm, and as you can see, it had been a hella fun day.
I pulled myself together and prepared to finally leave the house, checking the mail on my way out. There, in black ink on white paper, the state of Colorado informed me that my application for medicaid had been...approved! Something else that has gone right in this process. Every flicker of hope is a very good thing.
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| Photo by Lisa Risager |
And I finally arrived at my weekly crochet circle. Technically, it's a knitting circle, but if you've been reading this blog long, you know that I crochet a hell of a lot better and with much more confidence than I knit, so most of the group knits, I continue to work on crocheted Christmas presents, and we all keep each other company. It's a very accepting group, thank God, and often ends up as much a therapy session as a crafting event; we find ourselves telling each other things most people wouldn't discuss in an A.A. testimonial. Tonight was certainly no exception, as we covered the conversational spectrum from the history of Christianity to some truly frightening ways to sneak booze into a nightclub with you. (Fake tampons?! Seriously, this is a thing now? You have GOT to be kidding!)
Overall, it was intelligent conversation, a rare and precious gift from one's fellow human beings at times, and at the end of it, two young women who didn't even know my name yet ended up two of my new best friends. One of them also suffers from PTSD, and the other is a major part of her support network. They spoke to me with compassion and kindness, not pity, told me I was not alone, and generously gave their phone numbers to a near-stranger.
William Cowper wrote,
"God moves in a mysterious way,
His wonders to perform."
He was absolutely right. Our Heavenly Father usually sends His greatest gifts through other people, the hope generated by the outstretched hand of loving human contact. And tomorrow is another day in which to make things better.
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