I hate November. I love fall, I love the leaves and the cold air in the morning that slightly warms up by the time the kids are out of school so they can still play inside. I love putting on rainy or snowy sounds to go to sleep next to my sweet, loving husband. 

I hate hate hate November. I hate Thanksgiving, I especially hate November 13th. November 12th 2019 I told my mom ‘I’ll see you tomorrow momma’ and at 11:58 my dad called me to tell me she didn’t make it to the next day. I laid in bed as the minutes passed into November 13th, both of the kids in bed next to me and I stared at the ceiling. Frozen and not able to move. I hate that day because I was a coward. I should have gotten up, woken the kids up or called someone, anyone, to come sit with them while I went to see her one last time. She was the one I would have called though. Even though sometimes she didn’t answer, and sometimes she didn’t really like me very much, she was still my mom. I should have sat with her a little longer. Even though the kids were tired and I had school the next day and clinical finals that week and a divorce in the making. I should have put myself aside and just fucking sat there with her just as I have done for many many patients since then. So instead on November 13th I laid in bed next to my babies and I said I’m sorry into the ceiling of my cheap, empty apartment. Every November I travel back there. Regret and anger boiled up inside me. There’s nothing I can do about it. I ignore it most of the months. Then November comes again like the bitch ass she is and I don’t want to go family shit, I don’t want to cook, I don’t want to see Thanksgiving ads and red and brown leaf art projects. I just wanna be mad.

 I go on though. I hug my kids and I cuddle next to my sweet, loving husband and I just shove it down until the next November. So. This is a hate letter to you, November. But it’s a love letter to myself. You can hate November but don’t aim that animosity inward. It’s not my fault and it’s not something I can change. It’s just a wound that opens back up as the leaves fall. It’ll heal over again and then December will come. December with it’s sparkly lights and candy canes and the sound of our kids laughing and playing. So, come on December, I’m ready.