Change Your Stars

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milky way galaxy during nighttime — Photo by Hristo Fidanov on Pexels.com

At the time of writing this, I just finished reading The Time Traveler’s Wife for the first time within the past hour.

No, I haven’t gotten the weeks mixed up. This isn’t a review of the book; more a reflection of myself, of what the book highlighted about my own life to me.

(If you’ve never read it or seen the film adaptation, then you might get a bit lost because I’m not sure how many details about the plot I’ll get into during my musings.)

My first thought when I finished, which I text to my husband, was, “I don’t know if I liked it.”

When I asked myself, “Why?” the first explanation which appeared was the simplest: because there was so much, maybe even too much, pain. Then, of course, my next question for myself, “Why does the pain bother me?” especially when before I know how I used to enjoy watching sad films, reading sad books, etc.

The answer came quick: too many years of my life I was sad, and I don’t want to be sad anymore.

I clawed my way—bloody and broken—out of the depths of my despair. I have screamed, wailed, and railed at the Heavens, demanding for my pain to be heard by someone, anyone.

Now, I will note, I was never diagnosed with any specific condition, so sure, I was probably depressive, anxious, whatever label you want to put on it if that helps you understand better. I know I struggle with PTSD, which can obviously include the aforementioned. I choose not to further label my pain, how it was suppressed and eventually expressed, because having survived those trenches, and now having spent enough time away to recover, to reflect, to heal—I don’t need labels or a diagnosis to know myself, to understand my pain and through what I suffered.

I also have learned to accept it as a part of me, a part which may never fully heal, but I will always strive to guard and protect.

Thus, you might be able to infer how reading a book like The Time Traveler’s Wife might be what some would call “triggering” for me. It was. And I did go into reading the book knowing it would probably trigger a lot of deep wounds in me, especially the struggles Clare and Henry’s marriage endure. Those wounds are still a little too fresh compared to the others I’ve carried most of my life, so whenever they compared Henry’s condition to epilepsy…let’s just say it stung. Enough that by the time I finished the book, it hurt too much I didn’t, couldn’t, enjoy it.

I think the enjoyment I experienced in my youth of sad movies or books was probably because the pain was buried so deep, too deep, these different mediums helped me relieve it as my own form of catharsis. While I still have those moods (thank you, PMS) when I want to watch a sad film, usually it’s something I’ve already seen, or at least I know won’t trigger anything. That’s why reading something like The Time Traveler’s Wife is a rare occasion for me.

This distance, or disassociation, from what you might think are menial forms of entertainment isn’t denial, nor is it an unhealthy avoidance. Again, I have accepted those parts of me. Rather, it is because I have found life beyond my pain, and I want experience it to the fullest.

Did you know that some of the sages say that after we pass into the next life, when we stand before the seat of judgement, Hashem will hold us accountable for every pleasure we did not enjoy?

When my rabbi told me that, it changed everything for me.

How long had I stopped enjoying any pleasures because I was too overwhelmed or burdened under the weight of my trauma and pain, assuming I was not meant to, not allowed to, not worthy to have pleasure? How many pleasures had I denied myself?

How long had I not been enjoying my life?

In that moment I decided, “No more.”

I don’t want to be defined by my pain, nor will I let anyone or anything, no matter how menial, take my new found joy away from me. I will fight to protect it.

I guess that’s why I struggle with the idea of going back to a regular 8:00-5:00 job, of giving up this sabbatical, if you will, where I’ve gotten to experience a taste of what life could be like without having to work a day job, of getting to focus on my writing alone. It’s definitely why I’m not giving up on my manuscript and throwing myself into querying again. I know it’s why the baby fever is still ever present and fierce; why I itch to bury my hands into the dirt and garden; why I’m desperate to get back to Israel, to see some mountains again.

I want Life.

Why do I share all this?

I think because in some egotistical, selfish way, I’m emoting my musings to the Internet instead of journaling these thoughts. Except I would hope my words encourage those, who like me, have endured years of hardship, years of pain, that it does get better, that you can heal, and that you don’t have to be sad. Your pain is not your lot in life just because you got dealt a really $h*tty hand one round.

You can change your stars.