The Road Ahead

For my birthday, my oldest friend gifted me a reading with a Vedic astrologist.  Casey, it should be said, would point out that she’s my age, give or take.  She’s not elderly, we’ve just known each other since babyhood.  Anyway, ancient Casey gave me a reading.

Vedic astrology differs from western astrology in that it operates from a different calendar.  I’m sure it differs in other ways too but I’m a layperson so bear with me.  The astrologer inputs your birth date, birth time, and birth location which results in something like a life map.  How things might be going for you in any particular time in your life, in any particular category.

The reading itself was over the phone.  My astrologer, Prasannan, had a vague mid-Atlantic accent.  His origins, really everything about him, remain a mystery to me.  He was soft-spoken, even-keeled, the perfect foil for rocket Liz.

He calmly informed me that I’m in a seven-year period in which almost every area of my life is difficult.  This was not news to me.  That period started about a year before the breakdown of my marriage.  The ensuing years have featured divorce, the sometimes harrowing building of a business, a couple of my kids hitting times of peril, medical crises (related to kid peril - and paid for out-of-pocket), two moves, an almost-impossible real estate deal, a major house fix-up comprising leaky roofs, rat and termite infestations, sewer lateral replacements, oh and, the cherry on top of the proverbial cake, an impossible love life.   I have so many gifts, so much good luck, and I’ve spent the last six and a half years pushing boulders uphill.

This period, he said, is the most challenging of my life.  I would hope so.

But, he said, so mellow, everything is about to change.  In December 2019 most if not all barriers will fall.  I will have business success, financial ease and - wait for it - love.  I might be moving.  Things would be very good for me in Florida, according to him.  I was like, “Yeah?  Anywhere else?”  The entire Eastern seaboard, Fiji, Hawaii.  But really, he said, Florida is very strong for you.

So I’m not fucking moving to Florida.  Cashmere sales alone would nix that idea.  Same, I suppose for Fiji and Hawaii, though those are more appealing.  My aversion to reptiles and Donald Trump is too strong for Florida.

Six weeks ago or so I had a major coming to Jesus.  One night at 3am, wracked with anxiety, I realized that there has been a recurring idea circling my mind for awhile now.  It’s a whisper that goes like this: I’m only going to get older and sadder and fatter and uglier.  A long winding-down until finally I die.  Ok, what a drama queen but there’s some truth in there.  I’m am for sure going to get older.  I’ll probably get uglier.  I’d be very fortunate if I didn’t get fatter once menopause hits.  But do I have to get sadder?  Is it all downhill from here?  I’m 48 years old.  This might be my midway mark through life.  That seems like a long decline.

This night, this 3am, I realized I’m not doing so well.  I have a deal with my psychiatrist.  We meet every six months for twenty minutes to check in around meds - they haven’t changed much in years.  But if I hit the skids, I’m under strict instruction to call him immediately.  There in my bed, staring into the dark, that whisper in my ear, I pledged to call him in the morning.  I also promised myself that I’d find a therapist.

I’m a great believer in therapy.  I’ve had periods of my life where I’ve been in for awhile (for three years after my dad died, another spate when my mom got sick, another when she died).  I haven’t been in therapy, however, beyond dreaded family therapy, since my mom’s death in 2011.  I’ve been riding this rough wave of the last number of years without counsel.  Well, that seems stupid, you might be saying.  Yes, stupid, but the last years have also been terrifying financially as I’ve solo-mommed it.  I’ve felt I couldn’t afford therapy,  What I came to that 3am was that I couldn’t not afford it.

I’m efficient.  I was in my psychiatrist’s office by Monday, getting a boost on my anti-depressant prescription.  By Tuesday I had a therapist in place, one that would indulge me with a sliding scale.  I’ve been feeling better.  The drugs help and the therapy is fascinating.  Already, after a few sessions, there are areas of my life that feel much clearer.  Dark corners illuminated by the light of day.

This morning, pondering my almost empty bank account, I wondered.  What if this is the bottom?  What if things got easier?  What if I found my feet financially post-medical-crisis (I’m still paying off tens of thousands in unreimbursed medical bills).  What if my house reached a stasis of repair?  What if some beautiful (available) man walked into my life to keep me company?  What if my kids continued on their current positive course towards adulthood?  What if my business grew beyond my dreams?

Come December, if you come looking for me at the shop and the lovely person working the register tells you I’ve gone off to Florida with Tim, maybe you shouldn’t be surprised.  We don’t know what’s ahead do we?  But that doesn’t mean it’s awful.  Florida or no.