lights&magnets bolts&wires

From the time that Jeff and I got engaged to the day we got married, I was more or less in a state of panic that increased as The Big Day approached. The psychotic fight-or-flight would kick in whenever a decision had to be made, large or small. And once January 1, 2011 rolled around, shit got real. From there on out, it was 203 solid days of me feeling shaky, ill, lonesome, intimidated, and terrified. 

Not about the marriage itself. That part was sweet. It was great to look forward to a fun, happy life with Jeff. That part didn’t scare me. What scared me was all the stuff I had to do and get through to get to the point where we’d be officially, actually, finally married. 

There were several times where I wanted to call the big, flashy wedding off and just fuck right off and go do the city hall thing. But it was always too late. Deposits were paid and relatives were excited. There was no turning back. And so I worried myself sick. I missed days of work because I was so ruined. I would subject Jeff to terrifying bouts of tearful meltdowns, and would rail at my parents about how difficult it all was. But at the end of each long, nervous day, I’d have to pull myself together and put a smile on my face because I was a bride. And there was no way I was going to let anyone - anyone - call me Bridezilla. Ever.

Brides never talk about this shit. The bride blogs are all about how, oh, “it was so fun to work together to create the perfect day!” and never talk about how many times you nearly want to walk away from it all and go get married on another planet in an alternate universe where there’s no such thing as vendors or favours or invitations or water pitchers or table linens or decisions.

They don’t talk about being sick to your stomach for weeks at a time and they certainly don’t talk about the fact that your wedding is just another day and, yes, you might feel fat and ugly and insecure on it (I did). And I suppose that’s okay, because if all the child birth literature was about pooping and tearing and bleeding and complications and not just about the OMG MIRACLE OF LIFE, LOOK AT THE PERFECT HUMAN YOU JUST MADE, perhaps nobody would have babies.

Anyway. Suffice it to say that I was a miserable mope who couldn’t handle even the tiniest amount of stress during my entire engagement (and let me also say that it’s absolutely not because Jeff was unsupportive or something - he was amazing. I’m just a bit of a headcase when it comes to plan-related situations). I was horrible.

And I’m right back there again. We’ve been married 236 days and we still haven’t sent out our “Thank You” notes. Not because we’re unthankful brats - although it may come across as such - but because I can’t get myself together enough to commit to the massive undertaking of thanking our incredibly kind and generous friends and family. Just the thought of it sends me into a tailspin of twitchy, insurmountable anxiety. My heart races and my head throbs. I just can’t. I’m trying. I really, really am. It’s just not coming easy. I know that we are being judged and I hate it. But I’m trying.

The cards are purchased and sitting down in the back room. We have stamps and a rather attractively-designed spreadsheet (c/o yours truly) of who gave us what. We have nearly everyone’s address. The only thing in our way is me. And just like closeted-Bridezilla Kim of months past, I have no freaking clue where to start.