I have known a lot of strong women in my life. Women whose strength is soft kindness, and always forgiving. Women whose strength is never taking anyone's shit. Women whose strength is to just keep moving, even when things are terrible.
My great-grandmother raised her children mostly alone, on a farm in Arkansas, after her husband died. She lost a daughter at age 2, and then, years later, lost her two adult sons within a month of each other, just before Christmas. She had been through loss, hardship, poverty, and loneliness. But when I think of her, I remember her laugh. I remember her vitality, even at 99 years old. I remember her threatening to turn her daughter over her knee for disobeying her - her daughter who was my grandmother, in her 50's. I remember her teasing. Her love for animals. Her stories of a life well lived. Her unwavering faith. There was no bitterness in her. Only love and hope, and a mischievous streak a mile wide.
My grandmother, her daughter, was pregnant nine times, but only got to raise three of her children. Three miscarriages. Three infant deaths. And of her three surviving children, one had a life threatening birth defect. She married the love of her life, but it was never an easy marriage, and then he was diagnosed with cancer and died, leaving her with three daughters, ages 14, 11, and 9. She lost herself for years to alcoholism, only to drag herself out of it so that she could have a relationship with her grandchildren. She survived so much, and her life was never easy, right up until the end. But what I remember about her was her irreverent laugh. Her smile. Her tough talks, given with compassion and love, when I most needed to hear them. I remember her teaching me to garden (which I hated), and to fish (which I loved). I remember exploring her land, reading in her tree, chasing the cows that lived next door. I remember how she was like no other grandmother I knew. There was no softness to her. Instead, there was "inappropriate" humor and lots of cussing, and zero fear. But most of all, I remember how much she loved everyone. The old, the young, the disabled, the gay, the Christian, the Jew, the Atheist. She didn't care much about the details. She just loved you.
My other grandmother, my dad's mom. A tough woman to love, and an even more difficult one to like. I was one of the few people who could get through her rather prickly exterior to find the soft, loving, devoted woman underneath. A woman who had married an Air Force man, but soon after found herself married to the musician that man had always been. His schedule, his paychecks, were never steady or predictable enough, so in the 60's, while raising her four children, she also became the primary breadwinner of the family, as a telephone operator. I always got the sense that she had been through a lot, but she wasn't one to talk about such things. I do know that she dealt with a lot of serious health concerns in her later life, and often felt terrible. But that's not what I remember about her. I remember how confident she always seemed. How she always seemed to know exactly what needed to be done. I remember her love. I remember her hugs. I remember how much I loved her. How much she gave to me, not in the sense of material things, but in the sense of adventure and determination. She was a formidable woman, and I absolutely adored her for it.
My own mother. A woman who has been through poverty, abuse, abandonment, loss. And yet, none of those things define her. She grew up in a tumultuous household that was constantly on the move. She often talks about how many different schools she went to as a child, and how she can't even remember them all. Then, at age 11, her father died and her mother became an alcoholic. From then on, she more or less raised herself and her younger sister. Until she was 17, and had me. And then my sister when she was 21. Young. Poor. Mother to two children. At a time when most people are celebrating their adulthood with drinking binges, she was singing lullabies and reading bedtime stories. And her marriage to my dad was rarely an easy one. And yet, when I think of my childhood, I don't think of the difficulties she faced. I remember how she faced them. She went back to school and became a teacher. She turned poverty into a game of finding change and scrapping together enough to go to the dollar movie theater. She turned food insecurity into an adventure of trying new foods. Lack of transportation became an epic journey to see if we could walk all the way to K-Mart (we did!). Everything was a game or an adventure, and it wasn't until years later that I fully understood the truth of how we lived. To this day, she remains one of the most hopeful, optimistic people I've ever met - even when she has struggled with depression and anxiety. She is a pillar of strength, but not in the way any of my grandmothers was. Her strength is the quiet determination to just keep going, no matter what. And to love her family, no matter what. My mother and I are very different people, but I still admire her kind of strength.
My sister. Rocking the single mom thing. She realized when her daughter was still very young that her husband was not the sort of person she wanted to raise a child with. So with resolve, she left him and made the best of it. It has never been easy for her. She has struggled. She has moved, sometimes often. She has lived with other people, to save money. She has worked ridiculous hours to make sure her daughter never wants for anything. And in the midst of all that, she is raising a young lady who is very emotionally intelligent (as well as regular intelligent). An almost-7 year old who can talk about her fears and anxiety more clearly than I can as an adult, and seems to feel zero shame about her struggles. Not only is my sister the definition of a strong, capable woman, she is raising her daughter to be one, too. And I admire her for that.
My friends. Mommas, you know who you are. The ones who have lost babies. The ones who have come terrifyingly close to losing them. The ones who have struggled with Post Partum Depression, Anxiety, and a host of other mental illnesses. The ones who have wondered if they are good enough. The ones who have been through divorce, abuse, homelessness, trauma of all sorts. The ones who struggle with physical illnesses on top of mental ones. The ones who doubt themselves, every single day. The ones who feel lost. The ones who are confident in their parenting, even if they're confident about nothing else. The ones with only children. With seven children. With every combination in between. The ones who have loved me and my children as their own family.
To all of us: Happy Mother's Day. Together, we can do this. Thank you all for inspiring me, and helping me through this journey. I love each of you. So, so much. I cannot imagine this journey without any one of you.
May we be the women our children one day remember as the Strong Women in their lives. <3
Sunday, May 12, 2019
Monday, February 25, 2019
What Depression Feels Like...
There is this misconception about how people with depression must feel. According to common belief, people with depression feel sad all the time. People with depression cry a lot. People with depression consider or attempt suicide. People with depression are easy to spot.
And while some of those things may be true some of the time, none of those apply to me, personally.
I have moments of joy, of laughter, of anger, of loneliness (so often I feel lonely - even when I'm around people) of grumpiness, of feeling nothing at all, and yes, moments of sadness. But mostly, I just feel tired. And I feel tired of being tired.
I'm tired of the brain fog. I'm tired of being exhausted all damn day, only to lay in bed, wide awake, for hours at night before I can fall asleep. I'm tired of not having the energy to hold a conversation, let alone play with my kids or work on a fun project. I'm tired of fun things sounding like a chore. I'm tired. So.very.tired.
But, I'm not sad. Not often. I mean, things make me sad, just like everyone else, but sadness is not my default setting. Not by a long shot. Most of the time, my mood is slightly above "meh", but below "cheerful". I'm overwhelmed a lot of the time. So much to do that all I can do is stare at my list, paralyzed by the feeling of "too much". And let me tell you, over the past 9 years, I've lowered my standards over and over again. And it's still too much, most of the time.
I honestly can't even remember the last time I cried. Before I started this current combination of meds, maybe? Certainly not that long ago. Maybe a few weeks ago?
I don't know. My memory doesn't track correctly these days. I can occasionally place the timing of an even based on it's proximity to something I wrote down or has been important for a long time. Other than that, it's all a mystery. Everything happened "the other day". Sometimes that translates to yesterday. Sometimes it translates to a year ago. I really don't know the difference, most of the time.
I feel foggy. Like I'm dragging my thoughts out of some disgustingly viscous semi-fluid. And when I do grab them, I can't hold them for long. And I don't know how to fix that.
Annoyingly, when I tell people I have depression, their first question is, "Do you have thoughts of harming yourself?" No. In all honesty, I don't. I never have. I contemplate running away a lot. When things are really bad in my head, I start planning what I'll take and where I'll go. At this point in my life, I think that I have enough barriers in place that I won't actually run away. Barriers I have carefully put in place over the past several years.
And before you ask the follow-up, no, I don't have the urge to hurt anyone else. I empathize far too deeply with others to be able to hurt people intentionally. (Except that one guy, about 8 years ago, that I nearly punched in the face, but I promise you, he totally had it coming.) In fact, my aversion to hurting anyone is a large part of why I haven't run away. My children would be devastated and scared if mom suddenly disappeared. I'm honestly not sure how Patrick would react, but I know he'd be upset. So, no. I don't want to hurt myself or anyone or anything else.
I just want to stop feeling tired. I want to feel again. But I want to not be overwhelmed by every sensation and emotion.
I am just. so. tired.
And while some of those things may be true some of the time, none of those apply to me, personally.
I have moments of joy, of laughter, of anger, of loneliness (so often I feel lonely - even when I'm around people) of grumpiness, of feeling nothing at all, and yes, moments of sadness. But mostly, I just feel tired. And I feel tired of being tired.
I'm tired of the brain fog. I'm tired of being exhausted all damn day, only to lay in bed, wide awake, for hours at night before I can fall asleep. I'm tired of not having the energy to hold a conversation, let alone play with my kids or work on a fun project. I'm tired of fun things sounding like a chore. I'm tired. So.very.tired.
But, I'm not sad. Not often. I mean, things make me sad, just like everyone else, but sadness is not my default setting. Not by a long shot. Most of the time, my mood is slightly above "meh", but below "cheerful". I'm overwhelmed a lot of the time. So much to do that all I can do is stare at my list, paralyzed by the feeling of "too much". And let me tell you, over the past 9 years, I've lowered my standards over and over again. And it's still too much, most of the time.
I honestly can't even remember the last time I cried. Before I started this current combination of meds, maybe? Certainly not that long ago. Maybe a few weeks ago?
I don't know. My memory doesn't track correctly these days. I can occasionally place the timing of an even based on it's proximity to something I wrote down or has been important for a long time. Other than that, it's all a mystery. Everything happened "the other day". Sometimes that translates to yesterday. Sometimes it translates to a year ago. I really don't know the difference, most of the time.
I feel foggy. Like I'm dragging my thoughts out of some disgustingly viscous semi-fluid. And when I do grab them, I can't hold them for long. And I don't know how to fix that.
Annoyingly, when I tell people I have depression, their first question is, "Do you have thoughts of harming yourself?" No. In all honesty, I don't. I never have. I contemplate running away a lot. When things are really bad in my head, I start planning what I'll take and where I'll go. At this point in my life, I think that I have enough barriers in place that I won't actually run away. Barriers I have carefully put in place over the past several years.
And before you ask the follow-up, no, I don't have the urge to hurt anyone else. I empathize far too deeply with others to be able to hurt people intentionally. (Except that one guy, about 8 years ago, that I nearly punched in the face, but I promise you, he totally had it coming.) In fact, my aversion to hurting anyone is a large part of why I haven't run away. My children would be devastated and scared if mom suddenly disappeared. I'm honestly not sure how Patrick would react, but I know he'd be upset. So, no. I don't want to hurt myself or anyone or anything else.
I just want to stop feeling tired. I want to feel again. But I want to not be overwhelmed by every sensation and emotion.
I am just. so. tired.
Saturday, June 9, 2018
Lights in the Darkness
As I continue to drag myself out of this trench of depression that held me earlier this year, with the help of medication, I'm rediscovering the sensation of being purely happy in the moment. This doesn't mean my anxiety is gone - it's always hovering, telling me that the other shoe is bound to drop at any second. But, it's manageable. I can brush it away, tell Mildred to shove off, and I can continue to feel really, truly happy. And on a few rare occasions, simply content - which is a rare feeling for me, even when I'm not depressed.
But as the fog is beginning to drift away, I realize exactly how bad it had gotten. You never realize how dark it's been until the sun begins to rise.
And I realize that part of the reason I made it through the dark were the stars that shone brightly, leading my way, reminding me that there was light beyond the abyss. And those stars were my friends. Friends who knew how bad it was, and never made me feel guilty about. Friends who went out of their way to invite me to things. Friends who, when I had gone too long avoiding people, would do everything they could to make me come.
"My Monday sucks. Does yours? Why don't you bring the kids over and they can entertain each other while we drink coffee and try to remember how to function."
"The kids have been asking to play with Sam and Miles. Mind if we pop by for a couple of hours this week?"
"I need to run to the store for ten minutes alone. Can you watch my kids, and then we can have lunch after?"
"Join us for dinner. Everyone is going to be there. So-and-so was saying they haven't seen you in ages."
"Let's grab coffee and talk about these Festival details that need to be ironed out."
It never felt forced. Just very chill reminders that there were plenty of people who cared about me, and who would help carry me through this rough patch. And when I just couldn't, there was no shame, no cajoling. Simply a sincere, "I get it. Maybe we can try again tomorrow. Or next week."
And throughout that, they were honest about the struggles they were having in their lives. They made me feel normal, and human, on days when that seemed impossible. And in those times that they were struggling, we leaned on each other, held each other up, and continued to trudge, together, through some of the least pleasant of human experiences. And they never let me doubt that we'd come out stronger on the other side.
In short, it was exactly the sort of support that someone struggling with depression needs. And I know exactly how rare and unique that is for someone with mental illness. I have read the stories, talked to the people, seen the statistics that show what mental illness is for other people The realities that others face.
And I am reminded how very, very lucky/blessed I am.
So to each of those friends, Thank You.
I love you.
[Disclaimer: It goes without saying that while my friends were the stars in my night sky, my husband was the one who walked beside me, one steady hand on my back, the other holding a flashlight to light our way. Love you, Patrick. Thank you.]
But as the fog is beginning to drift away, I realize exactly how bad it had gotten. You never realize how dark it's been until the sun begins to rise.
And I realize that part of the reason I made it through the dark were the stars that shone brightly, leading my way, reminding me that there was light beyond the abyss. And those stars were my friends. Friends who knew how bad it was, and never made me feel guilty about. Friends who went out of their way to invite me to things. Friends who, when I had gone too long avoiding people, would do everything they could to make me come.
"My Monday sucks. Does yours? Why don't you bring the kids over and they can entertain each other while we drink coffee and try to remember how to function."
"The kids have been asking to play with Sam and Miles. Mind if we pop by for a couple of hours this week?"
"I need to run to the store for ten minutes alone. Can you watch my kids, and then we can have lunch after?"
"Join us for dinner. Everyone is going to be there. So-and-so was saying they haven't seen you in ages."
"Let's grab coffee and talk about these Festival details that need to be ironed out."
It never felt forced. Just very chill reminders that there were plenty of people who cared about me, and who would help carry me through this rough patch. And when I just couldn't, there was no shame, no cajoling. Simply a sincere, "I get it. Maybe we can try again tomorrow. Or next week."
And throughout that, they were honest about the struggles they were having in their lives. They made me feel normal, and human, on days when that seemed impossible. And in those times that they were struggling, we leaned on each other, held each other up, and continued to trudge, together, through some of the least pleasant of human experiences. And they never let me doubt that we'd come out stronger on the other side.
In short, it was exactly the sort of support that someone struggling with depression needs. And I know exactly how rare and unique that is for someone with mental illness. I have read the stories, talked to the people, seen the statistics that show what mental illness is for other people The realities that others face.
And I am reminded how very, very lucky/blessed I am.
So to each of those friends, Thank You.
I love you.
[Disclaimer: It goes without saying that while my friends were the stars in my night sky, my husband was the one who walked beside me, one steady hand on my back, the other holding a flashlight to light our way. Love you, Patrick. Thank you.]
Wednesday, May 16, 2018
Positive self-talk
Most days, 5:00 pm rolls around, I look at my house, and I think, "I have gotten nothing accomplished today."
Some days, that's entirely true. Some days, my depression and anxiety kicked my ass onto the couch and didn't let me up. Some days, the weight of fighting my own brain has exhausted me, and left nothing else.
But some days - maybe even most days - it's a lie Mildred (my anxiety) likes to tell me.
Because while it may be true that the house is a disaster and we're eating leftovers again because I forgot to order the groceries (again), it is completely ridiculous to think I did nothing.
Every single day, I hug my kids and tell them I love them.
Every single day, I check in on a friend to make sure they're okay, when a Facebook post from them worries me.
Every single day, I make sure my children eat three meals and two snacks. Even if I buy them McDonald's from the drive-thru, I'm making sure they're fed.
Every single day, I spend what seems like hours listening to my daughter tell me about her gazillion imaginary sisters, and my son explain something I've never heard of as though I have an intimate knowledge of it.
Every single day, I make sure Miles is reading something.
Every single day, I make certain my children are learning something, even if it's "just" the social skills they gain by playing with friends, or how to treat a stranger with kindness.
Every single day, I make sure the pets are healthy and taken care of, at least at a very basic level.
Most days, I pick up things I don't want to. I sweep floors I just swept. I wipe some unknown substance off a surface. I talk to a friend, and remind them that they are going to be okay, that we're going to get through this rough patch together, and that this parenthood thing stinks sometimes.
Every single day of my life, I try. Even when I don't want to. I do the things that have to be done, even if it's just the bare minimum. But I do it.
No matter how many times Mildred tells me I'm useless and lazy, I need to remind myself that she lies. I am not useless. What I do matters.
And I do a lot during the day. It may be nothing big, but I do a million little things that keep our lives moving forward.
And I think that's a pretty important accomplishment.
Some days, that's entirely true. Some days, my depression and anxiety kicked my ass onto the couch and didn't let me up. Some days, the weight of fighting my own brain has exhausted me, and left nothing else.
But some days - maybe even most days - it's a lie Mildred (my anxiety) likes to tell me.
Because while it may be true that the house is a disaster and we're eating leftovers again because I forgot to order the groceries (again), it is completely ridiculous to think I did nothing.
Every single day, I hug my kids and tell them I love them.
Every single day, I check in on a friend to make sure they're okay, when a Facebook post from them worries me.
Every single day, I make sure my children eat three meals and two snacks. Even if I buy them McDonald's from the drive-thru, I'm making sure they're fed.
Every single day, I spend what seems like hours listening to my daughter tell me about her gazillion imaginary sisters, and my son explain something I've never heard of as though I have an intimate knowledge of it.
Every single day, I make sure Miles is reading something.
Every single day, I make certain my children are learning something, even if it's "just" the social skills they gain by playing with friends, or how to treat a stranger with kindness.
Every single day, I make sure the pets are healthy and taken care of, at least at a very basic level.
Most days, I pick up things I don't want to. I sweep floors I just swept. I wipe some unknown substance off a surface. I talk to a friend, and remind them that they are going to be okay, that we're going to get through this rough patch together, and that this parenthood thing stinks sometimes.
Every single day of my life, I try. Even when I don't want to. I do the things that have to be done, even if it's just the bare minimum. But I do it.
No matter how many times Mildred tells me I'm useless and lazy, I need to remind myself that she lies. I am not useless. What I do matters.
And I do a lot during the day. It may be nothing big, but I do a million little things that keep our lives moving forward.
And I think that's a pretty important accomplishment.
Wednesday, January 24, 2018
What Is Anxiety (for me)?
Hi, I'm Tabitha and I have Generalized Anxiety Disorder, Panic Disorder, and Depression.
I sometimes feel like that's how I should introduce myself, but the reality is that when I do mention those things, something strange happens:
People start talking to me like I'm either a time bomb, or a small child. Or they start asking uncomfortable questions and saying things like, "But you don't seem anxious/depressed!" or "Why are you anxious? There's nothing to worry about!"
Let's start with the obvious: Anxiety, Panic Disorder, and Depression are Mental Illnesses. By definition, that means that my brain does not work the way it's supposed to. It means that there doesn't have to be anything "scary" or "worrying" going on for my brain to randomly decide to hit the PANIC button. It can literally be anything, or nothing. There might or might not be a trigger. And if there is a trigger, I'm not always able to identify it right away.
You know, because my brain is in panic mode instead of thinking rationally.
Sometimes, I don't even realize that it's my anxiety or depression acting up. My brain slowly begins to feel foggy - slowly enough that I don't realize it's happening until I "suddenly" can't think clearly. Sometimes, I start getting cranky for no reason. Sometimes, I feel like running away. Others, I want to curl up in my chair under a blankie. Often, I want to be left entirely alone, and any noise is too much noise (a delightful experience when one has children). For me, my depression is so wrapped up in my anxiety that I usually can't tell which is which, except by evaluating whether I feel more like running away (anxiety) or more like sleeping for a week (depression). Add in the fact that I haven't had a good, regular sleep pattern in years (again, thanks kids. lol), and I often can't tell what's going on in the moment.
Some other facts about my particular brand of mental illness:
I sometimes feel like that's how I should introduce myself, but the reality is that when I do mention those things, something strange happens:
People start talking to me like I'm either a time bomb, or a small child. Or they start asking uncomfortable questions and saying things like, "But you don't seem anxious/depressed!" or "Why are you anxious? There's nothing to worry about!"
Let's start with the obvious: Anxiety, Panic Disorder, and Depression are Mental Illnesses. By definition, that means that my brain does not work the way it's supposed to. It means that there doesn't have to be anything "scary" or "worrying" going on for my brain to randomly decide to hit the PANIC button. It can literally be anything, or nothing. There might or might not be a trigger. And if there is a trigger, I'm not always able to identify it right away.
You know, because my brain is in panic mode instead of thinking rationally.
Sometimes, I don't even realize that it's my anxiety or depression acting up. My brain slowly begins to feel foggy - slowly enough that I don't realize it's happening until I "suddenly" can't think clearly. Sometimes, I start getting cranky for no reason. Sometimes, I feel like running away. Others, I want to curl up in my chair under a blankie. Often, I want to be left entirely alone, and any noise is too much noise (a delightful experience when one has children). For me, my depression is so wrapped up in my anxiety that I usually can't tell which is which, except by evaluating whether I feel more like running away (anxiety) or more like sleeping for a week (depression). Add in the fact that I haven't had a good, regular sleep pattern in years (again, thanks kids. lol), and I often can't tell what's going on in the moment.
Some other facts about my particular brand of mental illness:
- It tends to be worse in the winter or when it's particularly cold, but it's been pretty solidly in the "not good" category for over a year, now. We're working on it.
- I have "brain fog" pretty much constantly right now, even with medication. I know it's there because occasionally, things will be going just right and it will clear a bit and I'll remember what it's like to think clearly.
- Having constant brain fog makes literally every single thing I do a monumental task. It's exhausting for me to have a conversation. Writing lesson plans takes forever. Letting the dog out requires a moment to collect myself so I can drag myself to the door. Cooking dinner takes so much energy and focus that sometimes, I don't feel like eating by the time I'm done.
- The only thing that reliably helps me feel better is a combination of therapy and medication. I'm on the meds. I still haven't had the mental energy to find a therapist. One of those catch 22 situations.
- I am "lucky" in that I have a pretty clear idea as to the root causes of my anxiety and its bff depression. That doesn't mean I know exactly what triggers each episode or panic attack, but I do know the root cause. Unfortunately, the root cause is not something I can just erase or cut out of my life. I'm still learning how to deal with something that is so much a part of me that it will literally never go away.
- Because my mental illness has its roots in my childhood, I literally have no idea what parts of my personality are "disordered" and which are "me". Is my spontaneity a symptom or a characteristic? What about my "fight me" attitude? Where does the illness end and the person begin? Is there really any differentiation?
- Being around people helps. A ton. Unfortunately, the planning required often exhausts me to a point that I avoid it. Which makes my depression worse. Another great catch 22 of mental illness.
- Here's a big one: I don't feel like my brand of mental illness is a "real" mental illness. I mean, it could be waaaaaay worse. I can often "pass" as "normal", so it doesn't "count". (Intellectually, I know all of this is bupkis). What does that mean in a practical sense? It means that I don't feel like I should be allowed to speak about my mental illness, because it's somehow less important than others. Again, I know, intellectually that it's nonsense, and that my anxiety and depression and panic are valid, recognized mental illnesses. But that doesn't stop me from feeling like they're not.
- Just for brevity's sake, I refer to my anxiety/panic disorder as Mildred. I picture her as a middle-aged, middle-class housewife screaming profanities at a customer service rep (me) because she's bored and unhappy. I've discovered that a lot of people who struggle with mental illness use this technique to separate the illness from themselves. It helps us to frame it in a way we can fight back. It's difficult to fight your own brain. But fighting this other, this anthropomorphized version of our disease, that is something we can do.
- My depression, as yet, does not have a name or an imagined form. Mostly because it is much less invasive in my life. I tend to think of my depression as an emptiness, a void. It doesn't tell me I'm worthless (Mildred has that covered), it just removes all feeling - all highs, all lows. I stop dreaming. I stop creating. I stop doing things that make me happy, because they don't anymore. I know others experience depression differently, but for me, it is an abyss.
- I had a GOOD childhood. Was it perfect? No. But the vast majority of it was pleasant and fun. The parts that lie at the root of my mental illness, in perspective, are relatively small portions of my childhood. And yet, somehow, they've affected me very, very deeply. And none of them are particularly horrific. Just the somewhat mundane, long-term and unpredictable sorts of things that some people would not even be affected by. But not me. For me, they are a source of anxiety, even now. Not by choice. It's just how my brain is wired.
- My favorite forms of self-medicating include, in no particular order: coffee, overworking myself, "rescuing" someone or something, mindless video games on my phone, oversharing with everyone, and zoning out. By favorite, of course, I mean most common.
- My preferred methods of self-harm include: overworking myself, being sedentary, isolating myself, and forgetting to eat. Again, by preferred, I mean most common. It's not like I enjoy any of these. But they are the places I go when things get bad. I figure it could be worse.
Basically, it's a big, mixed up, complicated mess. Because that's what we humans are. Especially those of us with mental illness.
So, when I introduce myself, and 5 minutes in, mention that I have anxiety/panic disorder/depression, this is a bit of why. I can't help myself. But I'm also judging how you're going to respond to me. If I tell you about my mental illness, and you keep talking to me like I'm a "normal" person, there's a good chance we'll be friends.
Condescend to me and it will take much longer for me to learn to trust you.
Friday, June 23, 2017
"How are you?"
"How are you?"
"I'm okay. I'm tired."
It's true, but it's not the whole truth.
I'm exhausted. I am fighting my own brain 24 hours a day - and have been for months. I am constantly ambushed by surprise panic attacks. I have a list a mile long, and so much anxiety that I can't even start on it, which causes me more anxiety. I drag myself out of bed, out of the chair, out of the house, when I can, when I have to. I maintain what I can through sheer stubborn force of will. But dammit, it's exhausting.
I'm overwhelmed. I have children who need a million small things every second. I have a job/hobby that requires research, and leadership, and decision-making skills, and making my own costume - none of which I feel "good enough" to do acceptably. I have a household to run, groceries to order and pick up, dishes to run, laundry to fold, clutter to donate, dust bunnies to sweep, papers to file, appointments to arrange, lists to make...
I'm weary. The world is falling apart around me. Hatred. Death. Destruction. War. Tyranny. Injustice. Prejudice. Xenophobia. Bigotry. Illness. Poverty. Struggle. I cannot observe without feeling, and I have felt so much, so constantly, that I am weary of feeling. I want to feel numb, just for a little while. And yet, I know how much I hate that feeling, so I avoid it, too, trying not to feel anything at all, not even numb. I don't have the energy, even for that.
I'm sleepy. The new meds don't give me vertigo, at least, but I can't keep my eyes open. I sleep seven. eight. nine. ten hours. Still sleepy. Take a nap. Wake up more sleepy than when I fell asleep, if you can call it that. Is it really sleep when your brain doesn't stop asking, worrying, chewing on a problem, even when the rest of you is asleep? Is it really sleep if all your dreams are of being chased, of running away, of being too slow, too stupid, too weak? Is it really sleep if you wake up just as sleepy as when you laid down?
I'm anxious. Above all, I am anxious. Every second of every day, my body vibrates with it, this underlying but certain dread that everything is going to end, soon, and badly. My face smiles while my brain whispers, "Watch for the other shoe. It's about to drop. Any second now, all of this will be gone." I put on lipstick and try to pretend I'm someone else, someone whose brain doesn't insist on playing out visualizations of all of the horrible things that could happen to a person. I stay at home, pretending I just need to get things done, that I'm not terrified of taking my children in a car on the highway where my brain will play a video of us crashing, rolling, dying, screaming. On repeat. Until we get where we're going. And then I get nothing done at home because I'm so anxious about all that needs to be done that I ignore it all and sleep.
I'm panicking. Not multiple times a day, anymore, not like last week when I couldn't go more than a few hours without my brain hijacking my body and making me feel like I was dying. No, at least not that. Now, it's only once - or maybe twice - a day. Only once - or twice - that my heart races, and I can't catch my breath. Only once - or twice - that my muscles tense, preparing to fight, or fly - only there's never anything physical to fight, or to run away from - so they just stay tense, waiting. Only once - or twice - I get so nauseous I think I'm going to puke from all of the built up nervous energy collecting in my belly, filling it up with worry, so that I'm not hungry for food. But this is improvement, and if I keep it up, maybe, someday, it will all go away, and I will stop having to watch over my shoulder for its inevitable ambush.
But that's all too much. That much truth would overwhelm you. That much truth ruins the social niceties. That much truth makes you chuckle, nervously, and change the subject. That much truth makes me seem crazy. That much truth will make you sad. That much truth is too much, for most people. That much truth is too much for me. It's too hard to explain, over and over again.
So, instead,
"I'm okay. I'm tired."
And leave it at that.
"I'm okay. I'm tired."
It's true, but it's not the whole truth.
I'm exhausted. I am fighting my own brain 24 hours a day - and have been for months. I am constantly ambushed by surprise panic attacks. I have a list a mile long, and so much anxiety that I can't even start on it, which causes me more anxiety. I drag myself out of bed, out of the chair, out of the house, when I can, when I have to. I maintain what I can through sheer stubborn force of will. But dammit, it's exhausting.
I'm overwhelmed. I have children who need a million small things every second. I have a job/hobby that requires research, and leadership, and decision-making skills, and making my own costume - none of which I feel "good enough" to do acceptably. I have a household to run, groceries to order and pick up, dishes to run, laundry to fold, clutter to donate, dust bunnies to sweep, papers to file, appointments to arrange, lists to make...
I'm weary. The world is falling apart around me. Hatred. Death. Destruction. War. Tyranny. Injustice. Prejudice. Xenophobia. Bigotry. Illness. Poverty. Struggle. I cannot observe without feeling, and I have felt so much, so constantly, that I am weary of feeling. I want to feel numb, just for a little while. And yet, I know how much I hate that feeling, so I avoid it, too, trying not to feel anything at all, not even numb. I don't have the energy, even for that.
I'm sleepy. The new meds don't give me vertigo, at least, but I can't keep my eyes open. I sleep seven. eight. nine. ten hours. Still sleepy. Take a nap. Wake up more sleepy than when I fell asleep, if you can call it that. Is it really sleep when your brain doesn't stop asking, worrying, chewing on a problem, even when the rest of you is asleep? Is it really sleep if all your dreams are of being chased, of running away, of being too slow, too stupid, too weak? Is it really sleep if you wake up just as sleepy as when you laid down?
I'm anxious. Above all, I am anxious. Every second of every day, my body vibrates with it, this underlying but certain dread that everything is going to end, soon, and badly. My face smiles while my brain whispers, "Watch for the other shoe. It's about to drop. Any second now, all of this will be gone." I put on lipstick and try to pretend I'm someone else, someone whose brain doesn't insist on playing out visualizations of all of the horrible things that could happen to a person. I stay at home, pretending I just need to get things done, that I'm not terrified of taking my children in a car on the highway where my brain will play a video of us crashing, rolling, dying, screaming. On repeat. Until we get where we're going. And then I get nothing done at home because I'm so anxious about all that needs to be done that I ignore it all and sleep.
I'm panicking. Not multiple times a day, anymore, not like last week when I couldn't go more than a few hours without my brain hijacking my body and making me feel like I was dying. No, at least not that. Now, it's only once - or maybe twice - a day. Only once - or twice - that my heart races, and I can't catch my breath. Only once - or twice - that my muscles tense, preparing to fight, or fly - only there's never anything physical to fight, or to run away from - so they just stay tense, waiting. Only once - or twice - I get so nauseous I think I'm going to puke from all of the built up nervous energy collecting in my belly, filling it up with worry, so that I'm not hungry for food. But this is improvement, and if I keep it up, maybe, someday, it will all go away, and I will stop having to watch over my shoulder for its inevitable ambush.
But that's all too much. That much truth would overwhelm you. That much truth ruins the social niceties. That much truth makes you chuckle, nervously, and change the subject. That much truth makes me seem crazy. That much truth will make you sad. That much truth is too much, for most people. That much truth is too much for me. It's too hard to explain, over and over again.
So, instead,
"I'm okay. I'm tired."
And leave it at that.
Tuesday, April 11, 2017
Should...
I'm overwhelmed.
I should be posting information for my Living History cast.
I should be making preparations for Sam's birthday party this Saturday.
I should be folding the laundry that is clean, or washing the piles that are not.
I should be washing the dishes.
I should be clearing out the flower beds in front of the house. (I should have planted ages ago).
I should be reading to the children.
I should be filing the paperwork I am drowning in.
I should be clearing out the clutter that makes me feel anxious and claustrophobic.
I should be sweeping the floors that gather dust faster than anyone can keep up.
I should be answering messages from people.
I should be scheduling appointments.
I should be writing my novel.
I should be sewing a costume.
I should be ...
But how can I when I'm drowning in the static that is anxiety, loud and endless as the ocean.
I can't even think. How can I function?
I should be posting information for my Living History cast.
I should be making preparations for Sam's birthday party this Saturday.
I should be folding the laundry that is clean, or washing the piles that are not.
I should be washing the dishes.
I should be clearing out the flower beds in front of the house. (I should have planted ages ago).
I should be reading to the children.
I should be filing the paperwork I am drowning in.
I should be clearing out the clutter that makes me feel anxious and claustrophobic.
I should be sweeping the floors that gather dust faster than anyone can keep up.
I should be answering messages from people.
I should be scheduling appointments.
I should be writing my novel.
I should be sewing a costume.
I should be ...
But how can I when I'm drowning in the static that is anxiety, loud and endless as the ocean.
I can't even think. How can I function?
Tuesday, January 10, 2017
Escape
When I was younger, in my late high school and early college days, I would often repeat the age-old sentiment as though I'd discovered it: "Stop the world. I want off."
For me, it was never a statement about the outside world. It was always about having too much happening all at once, on a personal level. Too much to process for someone like me, who needs time to analyze every.little.thing. It was often a springboard for writing something out to process what was going on, and how I felt about it. It was a sincere desire to walk away from everything, temporarily, to give myself time to breathe, and time to process, and maybe even time to relax a little.
When my anxiety was at its worst, this feeling came back, even stronger, urging me to leave everything behind - run away, and never look back, if that's what it took to escape everything that threatened to overwhelm my senses.
And still, there are times, when the world at large or my little world here seems overwhelming, and I just want to run away. Stop everything for awhile, and go somewhere and breathe. The good news is that, now, I want to take my family with me. Run far away - somewhere warmer - and pretend I don't have to deal with anything. Even if it's just for a few days.
(I hear tell that this is called a "vacation". Maybe one day I'll get there...)
Anyway, I'm there. The world seems at once too big, too intimidating and yet, too small, too confining. I am restless, in a way that only winter can make me feel. I have yet to find what cures that restlessness. Until Spring, I am here. Trying to find my way, wanting desperately to ignore the world, to hide away, somewhere warm, and play with my kiddos in the sun.
For me, it was never a statement about the outside world. It was always about having too much happening all at once, on a personal level. Too much to process for someone like me, who needs time to analyze every.little.thing. It was often a springboard for writing something out to process what was going on, and how I felt about it. It was a sincere desire to walk away from everything, temporarily, to give myself time to breathe, and time to process, and maybe even time to relax a little.
When my anxiety was at its worst, this feeling came back, even stronger, urging me to leave everything behind - run away, and never look back, if that's what it took to escape everything that threatened to overwhelm my senses.
And still, there are times, when the world at large or my little world here seems overwhelming, and I just want to run away. Stop everything for awhile, and go somewhere and breathe. The good news is that, now, I want to take my family with me. Run far away - somewhere warmer - and pretend I don't have to deal with anything. Even if it's just for a few days.
(I hear tell that this is called a "vacation". Maybe one day I'll get there...)
Anyway, I'm there. The world seems at once too big, too intimidating and yet, too small, too confining. I am restless, in a way that only winter can make me feel. I have yet to find what cures that restlessness. Until Spring, I am here. Trying to find my way, wanting desperately to ignore the world, to hide away, somewhere warm, and play with my kiddos in the sun.
Monday, January 9, 2017
Tired
I haven't really felt much like writing, lately.
Seasonal depression/blues/whatever is in full swing, and it just makes me tired.
Plus, I've messed up my back again, so it's hurting, which makes me tired. And it has been cold. Which makes me tired.
And I've made the mistake of reading the news. Which definitely makes me tired.
We've been doing a lot of fun stuff. And I want to tell you all about it all. But I'm tired.
Maybe tomorrow. Or the next day.
Sigh.
Seasonal depression/blues/whatever is in full swing, and it just makes me tired.
Plus, I've messed up my back again, so it's hurting, which makes me tired. And it has been cold. Which makes me tired.
And I've made the mistake of reading the news. Which definitely makes me tired.
We've been doing a lot of fun stuff. And I want to tell you all about it all. But I'm tired.
Maybe tomorrow. Or the next day.
Sigh.
Wednesday, December 14, 2016
Strong Emotions
It is quiet.
It's 10:00 pm. The kids are asleep. The hubby is in the basement. All I can hear is the tick of the clock, the shuffling of the cat adjusting in his sleep, and the tip-tip-tap of the keys as I type.
We are halfway through the week. The Christmas countdown is going strong. We are 7 days from the longest night of the year, and 17 days from the end of one of the most emotional years many of us can remember. As one friend put it, it's been a transition year.
And I'm having all of the emotions.
Miles is getting big. Various videos and pictures viewed over the past few days have reminded me just how little he used to be, and by contrast, how utterly grown-up he seems suddenly. He is confident, yet sensitive. Smart, yet distractable. He can make his own breakfast, put together increasingly-difficult puzzles, and even empty the dishwasher and fold his own laundry. Yet, he still crawls into my lap for snuggles and wants me to sit with him until he falls asleep at night. He's 7, and I can see the days of needing mom for every little thing slowly, yet surely, disappearing. He's still an unusually (?) affectionate little boy, but I can't help but wonder how much longer that will last. I just want to curl him up in a ball and hold him in my lap as long as he'll let me. And so I have been. I feel so proud of him. And so happy for all he's learning and accomplishing. And so sad that his little voice has lost its baby-like quality. And relieved that he's grown into a really easy-going kid. He's a joy to be around, and I simultaneously laugh with the delight of it, and cry at the prospect of what is now well and truly gone. His early years were tough, in a lot of ways, but goodness I miss the good parts. (Though, to be entirely fair, I would not go back if I could - I remember all too clearly just how tough those days could be.)
And Sam. My Sam. She never was a baby, not really. She had one year of infancy, during which she was one of the calmest, easiest, happiest babies I've ever met. And then she learned to talk, and became a miniature adult. I often forget that she's only 3. She, too, makes her own breakfast in the mornings, and helps empty the dishwasher, and helps with her laundry. She engages in deep conversation, ever curious, ever wondering, ever asking the next hard questions. And so, it's easy to forget that she's 3. When she has tantrums and moments of defiance, it's easy to get frustrated and expect her to calm herself and be rational more quickly than, probably, she is yet capable of. She speaks like a child twice her age, or more, both in content and in vocabulary, and yet, under it all, she is still a very little girl in a very big world. She makes me giggle with her silliness, sigh at her defiance, and sometimes, cry in frustration with her stubbornness. I feel so proud of the fierce, determined young lady she is. And so guilty over my (unreasonably?) high expectations of her. And grateful for her constant over-the-top displays of affection. She is a beautiful soul, and I am so insanely proud of everything she is. I look forward to her future, to seeing if she, too, mellows with age, or gains the confidence to be even more steadfast in her determination to do things her own way. Given the long line of stubborn, fierce, determined women she comes from, the latter seems most likely. She is going to make me crazy for many years to come, but I look forward to seeing what she does with it all. For now, though, I feel so very lucky to still have the love, the affection, and the silly parts of my wonderful daughter.
In many ways, I am so thankful for this crazy mix of strong emotions. There was a long time after Miles was born when I was completely unable to cry. It is beautiful to be able to cry over everything again. It is beautiful to feel so deeply, when I had become so numb for so long. And I am trying to hold onto that thought: that there is beauty in everything I feel.
There is so much more, but what I'm feeling, more than anything else right now, is tired. Winter has arrived, cold and dreary, with the promise of becoming more so soon. And really, it has only just begun. And there are so many obligations to meet in the next 11 days. And then an abyss of probable anxiety and depression stretching out until March, at least. And I look at it all...
And I am tired.
Friday, November 11, 2016
Bullies
When I was in first grade, there was a new girl at school.
She came from far away, some place called Texas. She spoke funny. She dressed funny. She had huge glasses and uneven teeth. She was ridiculed and insulted and called names for everything she was, everything she could not control. I found her at recess, hiding in the tunnel, and sobbing. I found her, and I sat with her, and I told her I liked her accent. I complimented her dress. I told her that her glasses were my favorite color, and I showed her how crooked my own teeth were.
We were best friends for the next 5 years.
When I was in sixth grade, everything changed.
We were in a new school, a Middle School. I spoke with words that were too big. I dressed in clothes that were too modest. I had big glasses and uneven teeth. I was ridiculed and insulted and called names for everything I was, everything I could not control. My best friend found me in the hallway, sobbing by my locker. She found me, and she insulted me, and she slammed my head into a locker. And she laughed at me.
I had no friends that year.
That year, I was in the 8th grade orchestra, because of a scheduling conflict with my gifted classes. I was tiny. I had huge glasses and uneven teeth. And I worked my ass off to keep up with kids who had been playing for years longer than I had. And it showed. Slowly, slowly, I earned my way to the second chair, in spite of everything.
That day was the first time I was locked in the instrument closet.
I went to put my things away, and a big eighth grader named John closed the door behind me, and locked it. I was trapped. I tried not to panic, and instead pulled my violin back out, and in the tiny space, I made music until the teacher found me an hour later and let me out.
It was to become a daily occurrence.
Everyday, I'd try to get there early. I would put my things away, and try to get out first. And everyday, I was locked in anyway. Sometimes, I was shoved. Sometimes, I was physically lifted and placed inside. And everyday, I'd try to contain my panic as I heard the lock click into place.
And everyday, I'd play music until my teacher let me out. Sometimes after only a few minutes. Sometimes after more than an hour. Everyone else in the class knew it was happening. The teacher knew it was happening.
Not one person ever tried to stop it. Not once.
There is a reason I cannot abide a bully.
But even more, I cannot abide a person who stands by and watches the bully, and does nothing.
And if you don't understand the relevance this has to current events, then you're not really paying attention.
They had their reasons. They were too worried about their own lives. Too unwilling to give up the mirage of power from being on the same side as the bully. Too scared of what he'd do to them if they spoke up. Too caught up in their own lives to bother helping me.
But I would have helped them. Just as I had once helped that sobbing little girl in the tunnel. The one who would later forget the kindness in exchange for a selfish taste of the power of fitting in.
I would help you.
She came from far away, some place called Texas. She spoke funny. She dressed funny. She had huge glasses and uneven teeth. She was ridiculed and insulted and called names for everything she was, everything she could not control. I found her at recess, hiding in the tunnel, and sobbing. I found her, and I sat with her, and I told her I liked her accent. I complimented her dress. I told her that her glasses were my favorite color, and I showed her how crooked my own teeth were.
We were best friends for the next 5 years.
When I was in sixth grade, everything changed.
We were in a new school, a Middle School. I spoke with words that were too big. I dressed in clothes that were too modest. I had big glasses and uneven teeth. I was ridiculed and insulted and called names for everything I was, everything I could not control. My best friend found me in the hallway, sobbing by my locker. She found me, and she insulted me, and she slammed my head into a locker. And she laughed at me.
I had no friends that year.
That year, I was in the 8th grade orchestra, because of a scheduling conflict with my gifted classes. I was tiny. I had huge glasses and uneven teeth. And I worked my ass off to keep up with kids who had been playing for years longer than I had. And it showed. Slowly, slowly, I earned my way to the second chair, in spite of everything.
That day was the first time I was locked in the instrument closet.
I went to put my things away, and a big eighth grader named John closed the door behind me, and locked it. I was trapped. I tried not to panic, and instead pulled my violin back out, and in the tiny space, I made music until the teacher found me an hour later and let me out.
It was to become a daily occurrence.
Everyday, I'd try to get there early. I would put my things away, and try to get out first. And everyday, I was locked in anyway. Sometimes, I was shoved. Sometimes, I was physically lifted and placed inside. And everyday, I'd try to contain my panic as I heard the lock click into place.
And everyday, I'd play music until my teacher let me out. Sometimes after only a few minutes. Sometimes after more than an hour. Everyone else in the class knew it was happening. The teacher knew it was happening.
Not one person ever tried to stop it. Not once.
There is a reason I cannot abide a bully.
But even more, I cannot abide a person who stands by and watches the bully, and does nothing.
And if you don't understand the relevance this has to current events, then you're not really paying attention.
They had their reasons. They were too worried about their own lives. Too unwilling to give up the mirage of power from being on the same side as the bully. Too scared of what he'd do to them if they spoke up. Too caught up in their own lives to bother helping me.
But I would have helped them. Just as I had once helped that sobbing little girl in the tunnel. The one who would later forget the kindness in exchange for a selfish taste of the power of fitting in.
I would help you.
Friday, March 4, 2016
My Week in Short Stories
A friend recently started a FB page encouraging people to write a short story everyday. The rules are simple: 55, 150, or 300 words. No critiques. Just practice writing.
I've been doing them when I remember (and feel well enough), and the collection of them from this past week explain our current lives fairly honestly and succinctly. With no further ado:
Monday, February 29, 2016 - 55 words
Tuesday, March 1, 2016 - 55 words
Armful of toys, bending over to pick up more, humming along to the children's show in the background. These songs will never leave her head. Dumping toys into the toy box, grabbing a diaper. Chasing down the toddler. "Don't wanna change!" Diaper changed. Dinner started. Homework begins. Sighing, frazzled, knowing she'll miss this one day
Friday, March 4, 2016 - 150 words
Holding her close, but loosely, while the coughs rack her little body, rocking her back and forth, gently. The hacking subsides, and she slowly, but completely, collapses against me, breathing hard, trying to catch her breath. A moment's peace. Then, the tell-tale heaves of pre-vomit, the rush to aim it at the floor, gathering her hair while her stomach empties of the little she's eaten today, plus the medicine that's supposed to make her better. Gasping sobs, from both of us, until it's impossible to distinguish one from the other. It finally passes, and there is only the clean up. Naked, and scrubbed with baby wipes, she folds herself into my lap, crying silently, wishing, I'm certain, that this could just be over. I squeeze her tight, and wish the same, wanting to watch her dance and laugh, hating whatever illness has befallen her. And suddenly, I understand true helplessness.
I've been doing them when I remember (and feel well enough), and the collection of them from this past week explain our current lives fairly honestly and succinctly. With no further ado:
Monday, February 29, 2016 - 55 words
Sounds of bathtime - splashing water, giggles, rubber toys squeak. "Uh-oh!" Daddy got wet, too. A room away, she coughs, rolls over, restless from fever, desperate to be a part of the often-avoided routine. Rush of water, drain plug pulled. Sleep claims her once again, leaving her to wonder if this was reality, dream, or hallucination.
Tuesday, March 1, 2016 - 55 words
Armful of toys, bending over to pick up more, humming along to the children's show in the background. These songs will never leave her head. Dumping toys into the toy box, grabbing a diaper. Chasing down the toddler. "Don't wanna change!" Diaper changed. Dinner started. Homework begins. Sighing, frazzled, knowing she'll miss this one day
Friday, March 4, 2016 - 150 words
Holding her close, but loosely, while the coughs rack her little body, rocking her back and forth, gently. The hacking subsides, and she slowly, but completely, collapses against me, breathing hard, trying to catch her breath. A moment's peace. Then, the tell-tale heaves of pre-vomit, the rush to aim it at the floor, gathering her hair while her stomach empties of the little she's eaten today, plus the medicine that's supposed to make her better. Gasping sobs, from both of us, until it's impossible to distinguish one from the other. It finally passes, and there is only the clean up. Naked, and scrubbed with baby wipes, she folds herself into my lap, crying silently, wishing, I'm certain, that this could just be over. I squeeze her tight, and wish the same, wanting to watch her dance and laugh, hating whatever illness has befallen her. And suddenly, I understand true helplessness.
Wednesday, November 18, 2015
Secrets
[Note: I wrote this yesterday afternoon. I am publishing it now, after making sure my sister was comfortable with it.]
I'm writing this while in the throes of a panic attack.
A story on Facebook (from Humans of New York) triggered a highly unpleasant memory, and my body is literally reacting as though I were reliving the moment. My heart is pounding. My ears are ringing. My hands are shaking. My stomach is in knots, and it's all I can do not to throw up. I have to keep closing my eyes and re-centering just to be able to continue typing. Static and fear fill my mind. I have to keep reminding myself to breathe.
I don't know what else to do, so I'm writing. I'm going to share the memory, in hopes that getting it out of my head will help. That somehow, releasing this deep, dark secret to the world will somehow cleanse me of it.
First, the memory, raw and broken. Then, the explanation. That is how I will tackle this.
I am 7 years old. It's late. The middle of the night. I've been sleeping for awhile when I'm awakened by a bloodcurdling scream. I don't use that word lightly. When I heard that scream, I was suddenly wide awake, and cold all over. It was a scream of pain from one of the people I loved most dearly in all the world - my little sister.
I run down the hall in my nightgown - I still remember how itchy the hem was against my shins - past the kitchen, and into the living room. My 3-year-old sister is lying on the hardwood floor in front of grandma's old sofa, her head surrounded in a pool of blood. So much blood, I wonder for a moment if there's any left inside her. But there must be, because she's still screaming.
(Excuse me a moment. I'm dry heaving here in the present.)
Mom and Dad are trying to talk to me, trying to explain, but I'm not hearing anything except, "It was an accident. You have to tell everyone it was an accident or they'll take you away." Maybe they were trying, but that's the only part that was getting through.
Suddenly, there are police officers and paramedics in my living room. Someone must have called them. Someone must have let them in. I have no memory of any of that. In my mind, they just appeared, out of nowhere. They surround my sister, shoulder to shoulder, so I can't see anything except the blood. There's blood everywhere. That paramedic is going to put his knee in it. He's going to get covered in my sister's blood.
She's on a backboard. A stretcher. Something. They carry her out of the house, being extra careful in case it's even worse than it looks. I've gotten dressed somehow, and I get in the car with Dad. Mom is in the ambulance ahead of us. We're ignoring the speed limit and the lights. We are staying as close to the ambulance as possible. Dad is talking to me, but I don't hear him.
And that's where the memory leaves off. I don't remember anything of the hospital, though I know the details by heart. What follows are the memories of what I've been told.
Tami had been hit in the face with a glass. One that my father had thrown.
We all tell the police and the hospital people, and later everyone else, that it was an accident. Dad was teasing and the glass slipped out of his hand.
No one tells me the truth for years, but I know. I understand in some sort of intuitive way what actually happened.
Dad intended to throw the glass. At my mother. My sister was simply asleep on the couch, in the wrong place at the wrong time. She sat up and the glass that would have hit my mother hit her, instead.
We can't tell anyone that, though, because then people will take us away from Mom and Dad, and the foster system is far scarier than anything that happens at home.
(To be fair, that's entirely possible. I'll never know first hand.)
No one questions our story.
My sister got over 30 stitches in her face. She still bears the scars. One shard missed her left eye by millimeters. Another sliced across her nose. In the end, nothing was broken, and there was no threat to her life. Apparently, the face just bleeds a lot. She got a puppy a few weeks later and in her innocence, named the dog Stitches. She was, by and large, entirely fine.
I wasn't.
I now held a secret that was too big for a 7-year-old. My dad had tried to hurt my mother, and in failing to do so, had hurt my sister instead.
And no one did anything about it.
And that fact broke me in a way that I still cannot describe.
If you've ever wondered why I'm brutally honest, this is it. This is the reason that I will not lie about how someone makes me feel. Because I've lied for 32 years.
It wasn't an accident. The glass just hit the wrong person.
I'm writing this while in the throes of a panic attack.
A story on Facebook (from Humans of New York) triggered a highly unpleasant memory, and my body is literally reacting as though I were reliving the moment. My heart is pounding. My ears are ringing. My hands are shaking. My stomach is in knots, and it's all I can do not to throw up. I have to keep closing my eyes and re-centering just to be able to continue typing. Static and fear fill my mind. I have to keep reminding myself to breathe.
I don't know what else to do, so I'm writing. I'm going to share the memory, in hopes that getting it out of my head will help. That somehow, releasing this deep, dark secret to the world will somehow cleanse me of it.
First, the memory, raw and broken. Then, the explanation. That is how I will tackle this.
I am 7 years old. It's late. The middle of the night. I've been sleeping for awhile when I'm awakened by a bloodcurdling scream. I don't use that word lightly. When I heard that scream, I was suddenly wide awake, and cold all over. It was a scream of pain from one of the people I loved most dearly in all the world - my little sister.
I run down the hall in my nightgown - I still remember how itchy the hem was against my shins - past the kitchen, and into the living room. My 3-year-old sister is lying on the hardwood floor in front of grandma's old sofa, her head surrounded in a pool of blood. So much blood, I wonder for a moment if there's any left inside her. But there must be, because she's still screaming.
(Excuse me a moment. I'm dry heaving here in the present.)
Mom and Dad are trying to talk to me, trying to explain, but I'm not hearing anything except, "It was an accident. You have to tell everyone it was an accident or they'll take you away." Maybe they were trying, but that's the only part that was getting through.
Suddenly, there are police officers and paramedics in my living room. Someone must have called them. Someone must have let them in. I have no memory of any of that. In my mind, they just appeared, out of nowhere. They surround my sister, shoulder to shoulder, so I can't see anything except the blood. There's blood everywhere. That paramedic is going to put his knee in it. He's going to get covered in my sister's blood.
She's on a backboard. A stretcher. Something. They carry her out of the house, being extra careful in case it's even worse than it looks. I've gotten dressed somehow, and I get in the car with Dad. Mom is in the ambulance ahead of us. We're ignoring the speed limit and the lights. We are staying as close to the ambulance as possible. Dad is talking to me, but I don't hear him.
And that's where the memory leaves off. I don't remember anything of the hospital, though I know the details by heart. What follows are the memories of what I've been told.
Tami had been hit in the face with a glass. One that my father had thrown.
We all tell the police and the hospital people, and later everyone else, that it was an accident. Dad was teasing and the glass slipped out of his hand.
No one tells me the truth for years, but I know. I understand in some sort of intuitive way what actually happened.
Dad intended to throw the glass. At my mother. My sister was simply asleep on the couch, in the wrong place at the wrong time. She sat up and the glass that would have hit my mother hit her, instead.
We can't tell anyone that, though, because then people will take us away from Mom and Dad, and the foster system is far scarier than anything that happens at home.
(To be fair, that's entirely possible. I'll never know first hand.)
No one questions our story.
My sister got over 30 stitches in her face. She still bears the scars. One shard missed her left eye by millimeters. Another sliced across her nose. In the end, nothing was broken, and there was no threat to her life. Apparently, the face just bleeds a lot. She got a puppy a few weeks later and in her innocence, named the dog Stitches. She was, by and large, entirely fine.
I wasn't.
I now held a secret that was too big for a 7-year-old. My dad had tried to hurt my mother, and in failing to do so, had hurt my sister instead.
And no one did anything about it.
And that fact broke me in a way that I still cannot describe.
If you've ever wondered why I'm brutally honest, this is it. This is the reason that I will not lie about how someone makes me feel. Because I've lied for 32 years.
It wasn't an accident. The glass just hit the wrong person.
Saturday, October 24, 2015
Me & My Boy
I'm still here. Busy. Mildly overwhelmed. Ready for a few precious hours to myself, but I'm here.
Faire ended last weekend. This week has been filled with illness, recovery, a parent-teacher conference, kids off of school, a book club meeting turned playdate, taking care of friends, and just generally trying to keep us all afloat.
But that is the story of stress. And while stress has comprised the majority of my week, that's not what I want to focus on tonight. Tonight, I want to remember a few shining hours of perfection.
Thursday, Miles was out of school for parent-teacher conferences, but Sam still had Parent's Day Out. We took Sam to 'school', went to Miles' conference (he's doing great!), and then, Miles and I had four hours of time alone together.
Not long ago, this was our normal. He was my constant companion, in everything I did. But since Sam was born, it's rare for us to get more than an hour alone together. And I realized Thursday how much I miss that time alone with him.
Because of the crazy of the week, I hadn't had time to go out to Festival site and clean out my shop, so we started with that. I was worried that the task would cut into our time together, but I had forgotten that really, the Festival is our place - Miles' and mine. He has grown up there, and he knows the site as well as any veteran performer. And why wouldn't he? It's been home to him since before he was born. I walked those lanes only days before his birth, and carried him out there before he was a month old. It is the place where he is comfortable, and confident. The place where he is most fully the little boy I've always known.
When we arrived that morning, I expected him to run off to play in the areas around the shop, taking full advantage of his freedom to roam unencumbered by patrons and responsibilities. Instead, he asked, "Can I help? What can I do?"
So, I set him to work putting things into boxes. I climbed the stepladder to get things down, and he put it carefully away. When everything was stored, he helped carry it all to the car, and he helped do the final sweep of the area, his eyes noting details I might have missed. When we were certain the shop was fully ready for the off-season, he asked, "What next?" Ready for his next task, though I had none to give. I looked at the clock. I had expected the clean up to take an hour or two. With his help, it had taken only twenty minutes.
I hugged him, and thanked him for helping me get done so quickly, and I asked him if there was anything he wanted to do before we left. Grinning from ear to ear, he responded exactly as I expected, "Can we go to the Children's Realm?"
It was an easy request to fulfill, and so we slowly made our way that direction. As we started up the hill, I was surprised again when his little hand (though not so little as it once was) slid into mine and held on the entire way.
It was a glimpse back in time, watching him scale the pirate ship, and run the familiar paths. It was so familiar, in fact, that the changes were all the more glaringly obvious.
Where once his head barely peeked over a structure, he now stood head-and-shoulders above it.
Where once he had taken a dozen steps up a ramp, he now took three long strides.
Where once his legs had been short, but fast, they were now long, and gangly, and even faster.
All too soon, the moment was over, and it was time to head for lunch. I let him choose, and over a chicken sandwich (me) and a hamburger (him), we had a conversation that I longed for so much in those former days. We talked of our favorite things, and of school, and Festival, and friends, and family. His speech was clear, and he was able to carry a flowing conversation in a way I hadn't realized he could. We talked for so long, both of us unwilling to break the moment. And when we finally had to go, we continued to chat the entire ride home.
Along the way, we learned things about each other. I learned that his favorite superhero is now the Green Lantern - an opinion I never would have guessed. And he learned that my favorite game was called Clue, and that we actually had the game at home.
Obviously, we played it when we got here.
Eventually, it was time to pick up Sam, and while we were both a little sad that our day was over, we were both happy for what we had. And we were both thrilled to hug Samantha as she came running to see us.
Faire ended last weekend. This week has been filled with illness, recovery, a parent-teacher conference, kids off of school, a book club meeting turned playdate, taking care of friends, and just generally trying to keep us all afloat.
But that is the story of stress. And while stress has comprised the majority of my week, that's not what I want to focus on tonight. Tonight, I want to remember a few shining hours of perfection.
Thursday, Miles was out of school for parent-teacher conferences, but Sam still had Parent's Day Out. We took Sam to 'school', went to Miles' conference (he's doing great!), and then, Miles and I had four hours of time alone together.
Not long ago, this was our normal. He was my constant companion, in everything I did. But since Sam was born, it's rare for us to get more than an hour alone together. And I realized Thursday how much I miss that time alone with him.
Because of the crazy of the week, I hadn't had time to go out to Festival site and clean out my shop, so we started with that. I was worried that the task would cut into our time together, but I had forgotten that really, the Festival is our place - Miles' and mine. He has grown up there, and he knows the site as well as any veteran performer. And why wouldn't he? It's been home to him since before he was born. I walked those lanes only days before his birth, and carried him out there before he was a month old. It is the place where he is comfortable, and confident. The place where he is most fully the little boy I've always known.
When we arrived that morning, I expected him to run off to play in the areas around the shop, taking full advantage of his freedom to roam unencumbered by patrons and responsibilities. Instead, he asked, "Can I help? What can I do?"
So, I set him to work putting things into boxes. I climbed the stepladder to get things down, and he put it carefully away. When everything was stored, he helped carry it all to the car, and he helped do the final sweep of the area, his eyes noting details I might have missed. When we were certain the shop was fully ready for the off-season, he asked, "What next?" Ready for his next task, though I had none to give. I looked at the clock. I had expected the clean up to take an hour or two. With his help, it had taken only twenty minutes.
I hugged him, and thanked him for helping me get done so quickly, and I asked him if there was anything he wanted to do before we left. Grinning from ear to ear, he responded exactly as I expected, "Can we go to the Children's Realm?"
It was an easy request to fulfill, and so we slowly made our way that direction. As we started up the hill, I was surprised again when his little hand (though not so little as it once was) slid into mine and held on the entire way.
It was a glimpse back in time, watching him scale the pirate ship, and run the familiar paths. It was so familiar, in fact, that the changes were all the more glaringly obvious.
Where once his head barely peeked over a structure, he now stood head-and-shoulders above it.
Where once he had taken a dozen steps up a ramp, he now took three long strides.
Where once his legs had been short, but fast, they were now long, and gangly, and even faster.
All too soon, the moment was over, and it was time to head for lunch. I let him choose, and over a chicken sandwich (me) and a hamburger (him), we had a conversation that I longed for so much in those former days. We talked of our favorite things, and of school, and Festival, and friends, and family. His speech was clear, and he was able to carry a flowing conversation in a way I hadn't realized he could. We talked for so long, both of us unwilling to break the moment. And when we finally had to go, we continued to chat the entire ride home.
Along the way, we learned things about each other. I learned that his favorite superhero is now the Green Lantern - an opinion I never would have guessed. And he learned that my favorite game was called Clue, and that we actually had the game at home.
Obviously, we played it when we got here.
Eventually, it was time to pick up Sam, and while we were both a little sad that our day was over, we were both happy for what we had. And we were both thrilled to hug Samantha as she came running to see us.
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| October 21, 2012 - Age 3 Photo Credit: Juliann Courtney Photography |
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| October 22, 2015 - Age 6 Photo Credit: Me with a phone :) |
Tuesday, October 13, 2015
To do...
I have come to the conclusion that I have too many "projects".
My current list of projects includes:
My current list of projects includes:
- Figuring out cold-weather gear for the last weekend of the Festival
- Making Jasper a few more dog ropes.
- Re-opening my Etsy shop, with a variety of different things I've made.
- Purging kids' clothes and toys that are no longer needed.
- Organizing the massive amounts of crap in my house (especially the paperwork!).
- Writing a story that's been bouncing around in my head for ages.
- Continuing my "Tell Me Your Story" project that I started last year.
- Planning things for next year's Festival (yes, I've already started...)
And that's not an exhaustive list, by any means.
And because there are so many, many projects to work on, whenever I have a spare moment, I sit down to decide what to do...and get crippled by indecision.
And so, I do nothing productive at all, and my list continues to grow.
To be fair to myself, I have made progress on all of those things in the past few weeks, but I really need to learn to focus on one thing, finish it, and then move on to the next. Unfortunately, that is a skill that continues to evade me...
Sigh.
Monday, October 5, 2015
Contemplations
I'm feeling contemplative of late.
Perhaps it's the fall weather, encouraging introspection and turning in as the year winds its way down. From here, it's the whirlwind slide through the holidays into winter and the new year. The days are growing shorter, and I am soaking in the sun's warmth before it disappears for the few months that somehow last longer than the rest of the year combined. Already, I spend my days in long sleeves and cardigans, and my nights snuggled under a pile of blankets.
Though this mood cannot entirely be explained away by the weather.
Perhaps it's me coming to grips with having a 6-year-old, a little boy, now, in elementary school. The thought struck me today that his next birthday is 7. The year I was 7 was a major turning point in my life, and many of the events that happened that year shaped the fears and anxieties that I still fight. The idea that Miles is approaching that age gives me pause.
But that's just another piece of the puzzle.
Perhaps, it's the health scare my newborn niece had this past weekend. It is not my place to share her story publicly, but for a couple of days there, all of us were worried about what her future might hold. In the past day and a half, there have been some answers, and she has made some wonderful progress. In time, she will probably be entirely fine. But the raw fear that struck my heart on Friday is not something that will soon be forgotten. I came home from visiting her last night, seeing that she was indeed feeling better, and snuggled Sam until long after I should have left her to fall asleep.
And that was a major factor, but it's not everything.
More than anything, I think I'm realizing that once more, I am in a transitional phase of my life. The baby years are over in this house. My anxiety is finally (more or less) under control. My evening plans are dictated by bedtimes, and my alarm clock by the school drop-off line. I have more freedom than I once did, as a mother, now that Sam is in Kids' Day Out twice a week. And really, even when she's home, she is often content to play alone. My time is not my own, and yet, I seem to have a lot of it to fill some days.
A part of me yearns for the day that I can go back to work, doing something outside the house that is both fulfilling and helps pay the bills. The other part of me is clinging to what I have, with both children is such fun stages of their lives. I love volunteering with Miles' school, but I worry about overextending myself, and letting people down. I have hobbies I want to pursue, but there are so many of them that I get frozen in indecision and play games on my phone instead.
I am realizing that the process of finding oneself is never over. It is a continuous journey that will probably end only when I am done changing. And if I've learned anything in this life, it is that I am ever-changing.
And that requires contemplation from time to time.
Perhaps it's the fall weather, encouraging introspection and turning in as the year winds its way down. From here, it's the whirlwind slide through the holidays into winter and the new year. The days are growing shorter, and I am soaking in the sun's warmth before it disappears for the few months that somehow last longer than the rest of the year combined. Already, I spend my days in long sleeves and cardigans, and my nights snuggled under a pile of blankets.
Though this mood cannot entirely be explained away by the weather.
Perhaps it's me coming to grips with having a 6-year-old, a little boy, now, in elementary school. The thought struck me today that his next birthday is 7. The year I was 7 was a major turning point in my life, and many of the events that happened that year shaped the fears and anxieties that I still fight. The idea that Miles is approaching that age gives me pause.
But that's just another piece of the puzzle.
Perhaps, it's the health scare my newborn niece had this past weekend. It is not my place to share her story publicly, but for a couple of days there, all of us were worried about what her future might hold. In the past day and a half, there have been some answers, and she has made some wonderful progress. In time, she will probably be entirely fine. But the raw fear that struck my heart on Friday is not something that will soon be forgotten. I came home from visiting her last night, seeing that she was indeed feeling better, and snuggled Sam until long after I should have left her to fall asleep.
And that was a major factor, but it's not everything.
More than anything, I think I'm realizing that once more, I am in a transitional phase of my life. The baby years are over in this house. My anxiety is finally (more or less) under control. My evening plans are dictated by bedtimes, and my alarm clock by the school drop-off line. I have more freedom than I once did, as a mother, now that Sam is in Kids' Day Out twice a week. And really, even when she's home, she is often content to play alone. My time is not my own, and yet, I seem to have a lot of it to fill some days.
A part of me yearns for the day that I can go back to work, doing something outside the house that is both fulfilling and helps pay the bills. The other part of me is clinging to what I have, with both children is such fun stages of their lives. I love volunteering with Miles' school, but I worry about overextending myself, and letting people down. I have hobbies I want to pursue, but there are so many of them that I get frozen in indecision and play games on my phone instead.
I am realizing that the process of finding oneself is never over. It is a continuous journey that will probably end only when I am done changing. And if I've learned anything in this life, it is that I am ever-changing.
And that requires contemplation from time to time.
Tuesday, September 29, 2015
Reflections on Motherhood
In a little over an hour from now, I will have been a mother for six years.
There are so many emotions that come with that sentence. Nostalgia. Disbelief. Love. Relief.
Yes, relief.
I've survived this journey for six years, so far. There were times I wasn't sure I would make it to this point. Times when I was ready to give up. A time when I very nearly walked out of the lives of my tiny son and my husband, convinced that everyone would be better off if I simply lived somewhere else. My body and my brain have attacked themselves, repeatedly, trying to convince me that this motherhood thing just isn't for me. Some days, I cried and wished the years would fly by so that I could maybe, someday, enjoy motherhood.
I've gotten my wish.
These six years have flown, faster than I could have ever believed. And there are days that my eyes well up with tears, realizing that my tiny baby who once fit in the crook of my arm is gone forever. Days when I look at pictures of his first smiles, his first sword fight, his round toddler face that is now but a memory, and wish for a moment, I could snuggle that tiny boy again.
But I wouldn't go back.
Because those years were hard. Those pictures of a smiling child also remind me of the struggles I faced every single day just to stay afloat. Of the anxiety that brought me to my knees, and the depression that then left me ... empty.
No, I would never go back to that time, because I have worked so hard to change the person I was then into the person I am now. And there is no way to relive the good without also reliving the ugly.
Oh, how I miss his chubby fists, with the dimples in the knuckles! And the way his little body used to grow suddenly heavy as he finally gave into sleep. The way he could curl up on my chest, and fit so neatly, because he was made to fit there.
But, now, I have it even better.
Now, I have his long, gangly legs, racing me to the car. Now, I have jokes whose punchlines are hilarious if only for their absurdity. Now, I have teaching him to read, and delighting with him every time he can write my name. I have daily pictures of a stick-person me next to a heart, so that I remember he loves me, even when he's at school all day. I still have fierce hugs, and tickle fights, and cuddles on the couch. And I still have the best little boy in the entire world.
The difference is that now I can enjoy him, as he is today.
So, if I could make a wish now, as I did back then, it would be this:
Dear God, please, please slow the time now. I needed it to fly by before, but now . . .
Now, I want to enjoy being this boy's mother.
There are so many emotions that come with that sentence. Nostalgia. Disbelief. Love. Relief.
Yes, relief.
I've survived this journey for six years, so far. There were times I wasn't sure I would make it to this point. Times when I was ready to give up. A time when I very nearly walked out of the lives of my tiny son and my husband, convinced that everyone would be better off if I simply lived somewhere else. My body and my brain have attacked themselves, repeatedly, trying to convince me that this motherhood thing just isn't for me. Some days, I cried and wished the years would fly by so that I could maybe, someday, enjoy motherhood.
I've gotten my wish.
These six years have flown, faster than I could have ever believed. And there are days that my eyes well up with tears, realizing that my tiny baby who once fit in the crook of my arm is gone forever. Days when I look at pictures of his first smiles, his first sword fight, his round toddler face that is now but a memory, and wish for a moment, I could snuggle that tiny boy again.
But I wouldn't go back.
Because those years were hard. Those pictures of a smiling child also remind me of the struggles I faced every single day just to stay afloat. Of the anxiety that brought me to my knees, and the depression that then left me ... empty.
No, I would never go back to that time, because I have worked so hard to change the person I was then into the person I am now. And there is no way to relive the good without also reliving the ugly.
Oh, how I miss his chubby fists, with the dimples in the knuckles! And the way his little body used to grow suddenly heavy as he finally gave into sleep. The way he could curl up on my chest, and fit so neatly, because he was made to fit there.
But, now, I have it even better.
Now, I have his long, gangly legs, racing me to the car. Now, I have jokes whose punchlines are hilarious if only for their absurdity. Now, I have teaching him to read, and delighting with him every time he can write my name. I have daily pictures of a stick-person me next to a heart, so that I remember he loves me, even when he's at school all day. I still have fierce hugs, and tickle fights, and cuddles on the couch. And I still have the best little boy in the entire world.
The difference is that now I can enjoy him, as he is today.
So, if I could make a wish now, as I did back then, it would be this:
Dear God, please, please slow the time now. I needed it to fly by before, but now . . .
Now, I want to enjoy being this boy's mother.
Monday, September 28, 2015
What's with the Blog Name?
In case anyone was wondering...
My favorite Disney movie is Lion King, but the Disney character I've always identified with is Belle from Beauty and the Beast.
She's a book worm, like me, who always felt like an outsider in her "provincial town". She is brave, but shy. Stubborn, yet kind. And she is a misfit amongst the townspeople. Much as I was as a little girl. Much as I still am among most of society (though I've found my niches where I fit in nicely).
Just before Belle discovers her father has gone missing, she sings a reprise of the opening song:
My favorite Disney movie is Lion King, but the Disney character I've always identified with is Belle from Beauty and the Beast.
She's a book worm, like me, who always felt like an outsider in her "provincial town". She is brave, but shy. Stubborn, yet kind. And she is a misfit amongst the townspeople. Much as I was as a little girl. Much as I still am among most of society (though I've found my niches where I fit in nicely).
Just before Belle discovers her father has gone missing, she sings a reprise of the opening song:
"I want adventure in the great wide somewhere
I want it more than I can tell.
And for once it might be grand
To have someone understand
I want so much more than they've got planned."
Every single time I'm feeling lonely or particularly outside of the "normal", this snippet of song plays through my head. I regularly find myself singing it without realizing it. Because, in a lot of ways, that is exactly what I want out of my life.
I want adventure in the great wide somewhere.
It may be that my adventure is in parenting, and Renaissance Festival, and simply living out this wonderful life I've chosen.
But I want more than that, too.
I want to leave a mark. I want to travel. I want to try new things. I want to soak up this big, big world, and remember all of it.
And I'm not sure I'll ever be satisfied.
Sunday, September 27, 2015
Here I Am
Sometimes, I feel as though I've disappeared.
Mostly, though, I've just been busy.
And I've definitely outgrown that old blog, with the title that drips with self-doubt.
That's one reason I haven't written in a very long time. It's hard to write under a title that is so self-deprecating. A title that reminds me of every insecurity I have. A title that limits me to motherhood and my self-consciousness therein.
I am a mother, yes. And a damn good one.
I am also a woman. A wife. An actress. An old soul trying to find my place and my purpose in this big, wide world. I am filled with anxiety, but I trust in the goodness of people. I am an introvert, but I love the company of people. I am cautious by nature, but I crave adventure. I want to take root, and I want to fly away, all at the same time.
I am a million paradoxes, and none of them can be captured in so confining a title as that old blog.
So, here I am, in this new place, with plenty of room to stretch out and write about whatever comes to mind. I'm sure the children will feature heavily - they are, of course, a major part of my life. But they are not the entirety of my life, and so they will not be the only thing I write about.
Welcome to my Great Wide Somewhere. Let's explore it together.
Mostly, though, I've just been busy.
And I've definitely outgrown that old blog, with the title that drips with self-doubt.
That's one reason I haven't written in a very long time. It's hard to write under a title that is so self-deprecating. A title that reminds me of every insecurity I have. A title that limits me to motherhood and my self-consciousness therein.
I am a mother, yes. And a damn good one.
I am also a woman. A wife. An actress. An old soul trying to find my place and my purpose in this big, wide world. I am filled with anxiety, but I trust in the goodness of people. I am an introvert, but I love the company of people. I am cautious by nature, but I crave adventure. I want to take root, and I want to fly away, all at the same time.
I am a million paradoxes, and none of them can be captured in so confining a title as that old blog.
So, here I am, in this new place, with plenty of room to stretch out and write about whatever comes to mind. I'm sure the children will feature heavily - they are, of course, a major part of my life. But they are not the entirety of my life, and so they will not be the only thing I write about.
Welcome to my Great Wide Somewhere. Let's explore it together.
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