I Should Be Happy...

The eyes truly are the windows to the soul. When this picture of me reappeared on my Newsfeed I was thrown back to where I was one year ago. It was bleak. I remember the thoughts streaming across my brain, “I should be happy, I should be happy, I should….”

I was drowning in a sea of self-loathing. If asked to name five things that I liked about myself I would have had difficulty finding one or two. Just weeks earlier I had started blogging the thoughts in my head. I also decided to stop hiding behind perception and to do my best to be real. I spilled my secrets: depression, sexual abuse, and my quirky coping mechanisms. It helped to put it all out there, but I was still entirely broken. I had unbelievable guilt for feeling the way that I did. My blessings were off the charts. Why were they not enough?

After posting this particular picture, a friend sent me a pm that simply stated, “What’s going on with you? I can tell that something’s not right.”

I ignored the message. I was not prepared to respond to someone calling me out on my flatness. I envisioned a cardboard cutout of myself propped up at the mill at Rockbridge where the photo was taken. I was there, but not really.

And through it all, Andy was holding my hand. He took me to our favorite places (that’s where Rockbridge comes in) and acted as if everything would be fine. In that moment, during that struggle with the abyss, I was angry at him. I thought that he wasn’t seeing me. Because he didn’t talk about it, I thought that he was ignoring me or even embarrassed by me. When I would cringe to be touched, he still hugged me. He was summonsing me with his kindness and unconditional love. He knew that I was still in there. He refused to give me what I was begging for: solitude and isolation.

Today, I am so thankful that I hung on and that I didn’t give in. Who knows, maybe I would have if I had not been shown such caring and compassion. I’m pretty sure that there’s a lesson in there. 

Just call me Grace.. or Marie

After the birth of my third grandchild I was invited to stay with Nathan and Brianna to help them get settled in. Well, ok, maybe I wasn’t invited so much as I said, “Hey, I’ll come and stay with you guys when you bring Kennedy home.” They didn’t object so in my world that meant that they were totally okay with it. Works for me.

I was on my very best behavior. I cooked, I cleaned up after myself, and when I had the opportunity I held Kennedy (her parents are baby hogs.) I was in nurture heaven. This is where I excel. Give me someone to feed and a baby to hold and I’m where I belong.

On Kennedy’s second night home she was fussier than she had been the evening before. Nathan came downstairs to wake me and ask for a bit of a break. I’ve never been great with sleep deprivation; even when I try to fake it, I’m a zombie at best. I sprang up ready to comfort my precious granddaughter. I wrapped her like a baby burrito and began giving her a bottle. I told Nathan and Brianna that she was in good hands and that they could go lie down. I would handle Kennedy. I mean, I’m an expert at this. I raised three kids and this is my third grandchild. Piece of cake, right?

I started down the stairs. Initially, everything was good. I can do stairs. Stairs are easy. And then it happened. I was maybe five steps from the floor when I slipped. As if in slow motion, my right leg was somehow contorted behind me while I was desperately holding on to a newborn baby. I continued my quick decent to the bottom of the staircase while repeating “It’s ok, everything is ok.” I wasn’t very convincing as Nathan was yelling and Brianna was frozen behind me. Her eyes were as big as dinner plates and I don’t know how she refrained from smacking me.

I completely understand if Nathan forces me to scoot down the stairs from now on. But did I mention that Kennedy is perfectly fine? I thought that I had broken my toe; only a sprain, I deserve that much. My body feels like it has survived a car accident. Oh, and most importantly, Kennedy never even dropped the bottle from her mouth. Yes, I am that good.

Just A Mom

Unless you catch me on a weekend working outside, I normally appear to have it together. The key word here is “appear.” Make-up on, hair a deliberate mess, and clean clothes equals normal, right? Oh, but the symphony of chaos inside my head. It’s not like voices that don’t belong to me but rather a loop of self-doubt and second guessing. I second guess on a professional level. I would match up my skillz with the best of them.

This parenting thing is tough. My expectations of emerging from the flames of adolescence and the teen years has been extinguished by reality. I foolishly thought that once they reached adulthood I would be golden. In my fantasy, I discover that I hadn’t screwed them up too badly and would celebrate by waving my success in the faces of my imaginary critics. Uh, wrong.

Grown children become brave. Brave in the sense that they reveal things to you in a way that they would not have done at an earlier stage in life. Now, I will claim a minor victory in that they are comfortable enough with me to say things that I still can’t imagine spilling to my mom. My kids don’t afford me the luxury of building a pretend existence. If they would just allow it, I could construct something spectacular; not real, but amazing!

Katlyn was my first. I was only 19 years old when she was born. I was instantly maternal. I vividly remember the first time that I laid eyes on her and felt this unexplainable rush of love and protectiveness. I saw no further than that moment. I had no idea of the multiple ways I could screw up as a parent. There are so many, and I have probably danced around nearly all of them. I just knew that I would die for her.

My only sure goal was to give my kids what I didn’t have; to take the way that I was parented and do the complete opposite. Now in choosing this philosophy, I pretty much dismissed anything that my parents did right. Yes, there were some things that they did right. I was just unwilling to acknowledge those things at the time. I would parent by example. This meant that I would set these unrealistic expectations of myself and others and let my kids marvel at how brilliantly I handled it all (I am a smartass. They didn’t marvel.) Perfection was the name of my game which translated to robotic. I didn’t let my kids see raw emotion which I am still pretty uncomfortable with. I was terrified of them seeing me make a mistake.  I gave a valiant effort at maintaining a spotless home because in my family this was a clear indicator that you were doing it right. It was ridiculous then and still is today. I never let my kids know when I was stressed out or overwhelmed and I definitely did not let them know that I was winging the whole thing; not a clue what I was doing. Still not quite confident in the whole parenting thing this many years later.

I am a believer in the concept that how we love is determined by how we were loved. If you are one of the fortunate ones who felt loved unconditionally, no matter what, you are probably better at expressing your emotions and feelings than I am. I can write it, but I don’t want to have to look at you and say it. So, as my children age, I find that I am less confident now then I was when I started this journey nearly 23 years ago. I am still learning though, and willing to grow, change and evolve. This is where I swoop in for the win: my kids still speak to me, they all will admit that they love me, and the majority of them still claim me as their mother.

When I don’t know what else to do, I write. It is my favorite way to sort out my thoughts and to untangle my raveled mind. I have to deconstruct the mountain of anxiety that I build with worry. Being me has an endless number of annoying challenges, but perhaps the toughest obstacle is staying positive and not immediately digging a figurative grave.

My poor kids… For their entire lives they have had to tolerate my overly active imagination and propensity to run straight to the worst possible outcome. When Katlyn was 12 years old I apprehensively let her walk two blocks from school to her grandma’s house. When I went to pick her up she wasn’t there. Instead of being rational and thinking that she might be at the book store (she was), I slowly drove all over town looking in ditches because I was just sure that she had been jumped by hooligans and was lying unconscious beside the road.

The day that Nathan got his driver’s license I nearly lost my mind because he missed curfew by five minutes. I just knew that he was in a horrendous accident. I got in my car and the search party ensued. He was fine. I was a bawling mess.

So, see? These are my tendencies. This is the level that I run on nearly all of the time. I completely bypass the mundane and immediately start planning the funeral.

This is where my people come in. I really am blessed to have them. The friend who sends me flowers because she has noticed my absence. The one who tells me that I am a better person than I give myself credit for. The one who reminds me to stay positive and to live in the moment. I wonder if I can ever properly convey how significant these souls are to me. The affirmations that they provide seem so elementary, but are crucial to my sanity.

I am not good with uncertainty. I am awful at waiting, which is where I am right now. Waiting. A new test of my patience and strength. I hope that I pass. I am not a religious person, but I do believe in energies. If any of you have love to spare, send it my way. 

Just Between Us

Though I have struggled with depression throughout my life, suicide has never been an option that I considered. The thought of living overruled the possibility of death as if it were a decision not made by me, but by a higher court. I’m quite sure that the thought was there, only buried and subdued. It probably danced across my brain as a fleeting option that I dismissed as I would junk mail. I faintly remember hearing conversations of people who have taken their own lives and agreed on the selfishness of that person. I passed down judgement so flippantly; that is until my most recent cycle of depression.

Such a sneaky, quiet beast depression can be. It attaches to me so gradually that I do not even notice the parasite that I am hosting. I cannot point to a day on the calendar that it began, nor can I recall an event that pushed me over the proverbial ledge. It is a creeping impedance of doom and empty space; completely void of reason and logic. Really, what right do I have to be unhappy? I can rattle off my blessings without effort as they are indeed abundant. This adds to the guilt that I feel when I hit that brick wall. My mind converts to autopilot and I perform the necessary things that keep me on the north side of insanity.

In writing this, I am admitting to my trade secrets; the things that I realize that I am doing when I am cycling. That is not to say that I understand my patterns or have the energy to change them as they are occurring. I am definitely not asking for intervention. I have certainly surpassed amateur status by now. But, I am a realist and I see the signs.

I have always enjoyed time to myself; the relief of not having to converse with anyone or give explanations for my words and actions. The exhaustion of communication is often what will validate my absence and helps me to feel justified in pulling away from the world. I isolate myself physically as well as emotionally, becoming conveniently unavailable. I choose to den up in my bedroom with the curtains drawn and the doors closed. I watch episodes of The Office that I have seen hundreds of times before; soaking in the deadpan humor that I prefer and letting the comforting predictability numb my brain.

I stop eating. For me and my food history, this is a big one. My appetite does not disappear, but I feel unworthy of nourishment. I once went nine days without even a taste of anything but water and wine. Nobody noticed, possibly no one cared. I mean, it’s not as if I appear malnourished with my soft belly and thick thighs. It has nothing to do with weight loss. It is refusing myself the most basic of needs. Self-loathing so intense that I do not deserve to eat. This is a really hard one to admit as I know that it will draw more attention to my habits than I am comfortable with. It is what it is and I continually remind myself that I only have control over myself, not others. While this is awkward and unpleasant, it is therapeutic for me to throw it all out there.

And really, for the first time, came the thoughts of ending it all. It was subtle. Calculations of how much my life is monetarily worth. I weighed my value according to what could be gained in the event of my death. I thought of Andy and how he could remarry and have what I felt he deserved; a normal wife who would be honest with him. I wished for him a more beautiful soul with a conventional brain. In my typical fashion, I was deciding what was best for someone else.

My children have, without knowing it, saved my life many times. It is looking at them that I see pure love. It is the kind of love that is completely unmerited and yet the most powerful force that I’ve known. They make me feel like a pivotal piece of life’s puzzle. Without me, they do not have a mother, a home base. They would be robbed of me; the advice that I can hand out, the stories that I tell, the food that I cook, the hugs that I give, the unconditional love that comes from someone who has been there every step. And though my worth cannot be completely measured in my kids, it has sustained me when I see only black. If I know nothing else, I know that the three souls that I brought into this world are heroes in disguise who, until now, have not known their weight in my world.

In this moment I am brave. I am strong. I can tell my story in a small town. I can gather my people and say that I am enough. There are those who will read this and not recognize the depth, but rather see a topic for gossip. That’s okay. I tell my story for not only myself but in hopes of shining a light in the direction of a kindred soul, because right now I can do this. Tomorrow might be different.

A Cure For What Ails You

I am in constant search of myself; as if I am lost and my picture should be on the local news. FYI: if I ever go missing, use the weight on my driver’s license for the poster. And a flattering picture. These are my wishes… Anyway. I want to grow and to learn; to improve and to be a light to others. In my quest for discovery and enlightenment I found that the simple things in my life are really the big things for me.

My family has often kidded that I am a bloodhound. My olfaction is extremely keen, sometimes much to my annoyance. In my defense, I did once sniff out a gas leak that no one else noticed. I may have saved lives, yes, I am an everyday hero. I tend to attach memories to smells which causes me to live in the past much more than what is healthy, I’m sure. I cannot walk by an Estee Lauder counter without opening a bottle of Youth Dew and breathing in Phyllis. I can’t help myself. And instead of leaving happy, I walk away sad and alone longing for what I once had.

Last week I had a moment when the noise in my head quieted itself. I was riding my horse and enjoying the aloneness found on dirt roads and in the sound of horseshoes on the hard ground. My brain meandered over to the joys in my life; the things that truly ease my depressive nature and that silence the revolving loop of negative self-talk continually playing in my head. As quirky as it may sound, the things that I find the deepest comfort in are smells. Not the manufactured kind, but rather scents that place me in the moment instead of the past.

Horse sweat: Yes, you read that correctly. I love the smell of horses. I would probably like humans more if they could just smell like horses. It is such a sweet, warm, comforting redolence that activates the happy corners of my mind; reminding me that they are still there, only dormant, waiting for a whiff of horse. The scent reminds me that life is best when it is uncertain and unpredictable. It prompts me to live in the moment and to absorb the spontaneity of a 1200 pound animal.

Baby heads: Oh, how I love to inhale the smell of baby head. I am not sure if this scent affects me because I am a mother or if it is actually an elusive potion concocted by evolution to assure the survival of the human race. I am a word nerd, not a scientist. Anyway, it is amazing. I can be winning the marathon for “World’s Shittiest Day” and a good nose full of baby head will put it all in perspective.

Puppy Breath: That skunky smell of a tiny puppy’s breath accompanied by an actual puppy. What’s not to love? I have shared with Andy my brilliant idea of a Puppy Therapy Farm where you just fall on the ground and are “attacked” by a passel of puppies. I thought that I was being very innovative. Andy reminded me that puppies grow up and lose the puppy breath and that I was encouraging mass euthanasia of dogs (I would never intentionally do that, by the way.)

So this is my crazy formula for non-pharmaceutical anti-depressants. I’m not throwing out my prescriptions just yet. I know my limitations. But, the above listed things really do help me stay in a good place; a rational place. If my favorite scents were somehow mass produced and sold for medicinal purposes, I am most certain that the marketization would render the once powerful potion useless. Because it is not only the horse sweat, but also the horse, it’s not only the baby head, but also the baby nor is it only the puppy breath but most definitely the puppy. For some things there is no shortcut or facsimile. Only the real thing will do.

Strong

Recently I have been taking note of the strong women that have made an impact on me. The women who get no recognition for their roles or their importance. On the outside they pose as ordinary, but they are actually super heroes in disguise. These are the women who get shit done no matter the circumstance and with very little fanfare. The ones who aren’t afraid to be genuine in spite of criticism and gossip. They hold it together, but let a few souls peer into their truths. I feel honored to be trusted with those truths.

I’ve always been a very guarded person. Until recently I really didn’t let anyone see the unedited version of me. Not even my family knew that I was a total screw up in full costume and theatrical makeup.

Fade in:

In the small town of Mansfield, Missouri, where nothing ever happens, resides ordinary, boring, mother of three who predictably follows an uneventful routine.

Scene.

I’m not one to tell another person’s story. If someone else where to write mine, I am completely positive that their spin on my life would be much different than my own version. So these are my observations of how I view some pretty fascinating women who probably would file themselves in the category of Typical.

The Stepmom: No, not mine. That’s a whole book in itself. The stepmom that I admire is the one who co-parented someone else’s kids. She took the responsibility without receiving the praise. She considered herself selfish for not bearing children when society told her that her value is measured in procreation. She jokingly refers to herself as Step Monster, but it’s no secret that she would jump in front of a bus for those kids, and they think that she’s the bee’s knees.

Wonder Woman: This is the one who smiles through unimaginable, physical pain. She sees her body betraying her and she chooses to keep going; making other women feel beautiful even when she can’t find relief from her many ailments. She’s witty and smart; hilariously funny and dry. When I whine about a “migraine” which is actually just an over exaggerated headache, I think of my friend who struggles every day to be upright.

Pugilist: Ok, I didn’t really know this word. I typed “ninja” into the thesaurus and it’s pretty much the same thing. Fighter. One of my most revered heroines is tough as nails and basically a super ninja. She pushes her body and her mind to be stronger and more capable than she ever thought possible. She is brave enough to document her journey in hopes of cleansing herself and helping those like her. Her determination shows me that my excuses are weak and that I will always have areas of my life that I can improve. And she could totally kick my ass.

The Visionary: This woman reached out to me when I thought that I wanted no part in having true friends. I saw friendship as work; she saw me as potential. She showed me that life could be fun and that dreams are worth chasing. Change is scary, but in actuality, living a stagnant life is scarier. You are never too old to start a new adventure.

Soul Sister: Old acquaintances can develop into the deepest friendships. This woman already knew the shell of me which is really no more or no less than I let anyone see. In looking through some long forgotten papers from childhood, she found a prayer list that she had penned at age 10. I was at the top of her list. We accidentally reconnected and discovered that our souls are made of the same invisible matter. She is me as much as I am her. She encourages me to keep moving when I find myself in the valley; when my inner voice torments me with insults. She knows because she undoubtedly sees me.

My Katie: Ok, so now I’m naming names. Yes, she is my daughter and she is amazing in spite of it. When I was pretending to be super mom she saw through the act, even at an early age. She knew that the smile was fake and that I used every ounce of my energy on appearing normal. I see so much of myself in her, but I can love every ounce of my girl. She is quirky and enlightened; free-spirited but with remarkable depth and understanding of the universe. She has taught me that conversations should be real and that sometimes the truth hurts, and it’s not the end of the world.

Self-discovery is horrifying. That is a very bland description for a gigantic axiom. Residing in shallow waters and small talk feels safe. No one drowns in my depth and everybody is comfortable. I still fear awkwardness; silences that need to be filled with meaningless noise. I’ve convinced myself that my ability to bullshit my way through most situations is a true gift; like it’s something special when all the while the majority of humanity is using my same tactic as a coping mechanism. When my “give-a-damn” finally broke, I opened my eyes to the authentic beings who stood out from the crowd. Not in an obvious, “Hey, I’m not wearing a bra” kind of way, but in a subtle aura of individuality and tenacity. I am grateful for these women and I needed to write it; to let them know while I’m in a good place. I hope to reside here for longer periods of time, but nothing in life is promised.

Blocks To A Quilt

When I don’t know where to begin, I just begin. The thoughts might not seem rational and my ramblings quite possibly sound crazy, but I’m not in any position to filter or judge right now.

While those gifted with talents beyond my comprehension can use symbolism and imagery to say what they need to say, ridding their minds of the beasts that claw at the brain, I am saddled to the need to exorcise my demons with blunt, vivid words. No pretty pictures here. No catchy melody where verses are laid out in order and only those willing to dig for meaning can find it. If you take the time to read what I write, you will know exactly where I’m coming from. You might not understand or have the ability to empathize with me, but that’s okay. Some of you get it, and for that I am dejected as well as grateful.

Depression is an asshole; that shitty kid on the playground that tells you that you are not good enough to be in some fictitious club with made up rules that are constantly changing to pacify said shitty kid. Depression is my constant companion who tags along, never even offering to pay for gas or pick up the tab. Like I said, asshole. I’ve fought back for most of my life, but now I’m tired; too exhausted to step into my role as “Generic Woman with Fake Smile.”

I would say that I am a high functioning depressive. I still get out of bed (mainly because I am an insomniac), I shower and attempt to dress appropriately, I go to work and I offer reassurances that I’m “fine.” I want to feel different. Normal. I really think that I would enjoy a day free of self-loathing and discontent; a stretch of time that involves surface thoughts and unicorns. A Gina-free vacation. But I’m pretty much stuck with me and I’m searching for a way to be okay with it.

Those afflicted with depression are a sensitive sort. We feel deeply, over analyze most everything, and rarely trust ourselves. Within this past year I have tried being more open and honest about my struggle. The reward that I have received in doing so has been some extraordinary friends who get it. They understand the lows that feel like black holes of emptiness. They don’t make moronic comments like, “pray it away” or some other unhelpful bullshit. They send me little words of encouragement when they notice that I’m just not quite myself (or when I am more myself than what is acceptable.) I try my best to return the favor when I see them slipping away too.

And to those of you who don’t get it… I’m glad that you don’t. But educate yourselves. Because I live with depression does not mean that I do not know how to have fun. It does not mean that I sit in my closet sucking my thumb, crying. It certainly does not mean that you have done something to cause me to be the way that I am. Most importantly, don’t try to fix me. That gets on my fucking nerves.

So right now I’m a bit like a robot. I am going through my days just doing what is necessary to get by. Minute by minute; celebrating the small things like crawling out from underneath the covers or consuming more than water, coffee and Altoids.

 I will share something I wrote to a friend who was trying to make sense of life, happiness and existing. At that time I had clarity and the words to address my thoughts so I took advantage of that window because, honestly, I never know how much time I have.

 Happiness is hidden in moments; moments of joy when our brains relax and gratitude is acknowledged. Happiness cannot be a permanent state of being which would negate all of its properties. It is blocks to a quilt that must be pieced together. The blocks are beautiful but the work required to fit them together is tedious and numbing. The end result is a work of art with the seams hidden and the threads clipped. 

Martyr

I’ve gotten out of the habit. The habit of sorting my thoughts as pieces of a puzzle; putting them in order with pen and paper. I have let myself dismiss the therapy that my brain receives by simply making a thought tangible.

An issue that I have dealt with my entire life is self-worth. Oh, what I would give to live a  life of entitlement and conceit; to feel substantial and worthy of the space that I occupy. While I envy very little, I am envious of people who can claim their lives as their own and do not have the desire to nurture, but allow themselves to be cared for.

I’ve set out on a quest to right the wrongs of my past. Not necessarily wrongs that I have committed (those are definitely included), but rather wrongs that I have participated in unwillingly or perhaps unknowingly. The notion that in order to be loved, you have to empty yourself into others leaving them to feel obligated to return that “love.” The aversion to conflict as a way of keeping the peace and maintaining a facade of happiness. The naive assumption that if someone really loves you then they will always want what is best for you, regardless of how it effects them. I have to break this cycle of dysfunction and co-dependence. I have to have the strength to say “no” when the demands made on me are ridiculous and excessive.

As most parents do, I worry about the example that I have set for my children. I have always wished for them to be generous and caring; compassionate and bold. I want them to want to do the right thing and to have the bravery to make the hard choices. In short, I attempted to lay out the template for “do unto others.” My ego told me that I was setting a great example of how to care for others; putting their needs before my own, doing what was expected of me, being an emotional zombie…

The real eye-opener is in seeing my own kid follow my lead and viewing it from the outside. Martyrdom is not pretty and that’s what I was. A martyr. I sacrificed my happiness and dreams on the altar with willing hands. I held the knife as it was pressed into my flesh. I was too weak to refuse and too afraid to walk away. I have been a coward. I hid behind the need to be needed. I did this to myself.

So, I am attempting to absorb the disappointed stares when I do not behave as expected. I am okay with not being essential. My existence is not contingent on the approval of everyone.  I might drive to the creek alone instead of running errands on my lunch hour or I may read a book instead of cooking meals. The world has not yet ended and my circle is still round.