Silent Scars

I have a handicapped placard in my car.  I get dirty looks every time I park in a handicapped spot.  Everyone assumes that a healthy 30-something woman is scamming a spot that belongs to people who are REALLY handicapped.  I've started carrying a copy of my most recent MRI on my phone so that the next time someone has the gall to call me out on it (and yes, it does happen) I can politely show them my MRI.  Then they can see for themselves the lack of cartilage separating my vertebrae and how it's causing my vertebrae to develop cracks.  Then they can SEE my disability.

I don't carry the scans showing the stress fractures in my lower legs.  I don't carry visual proof of the advanced arthritis in both my knees.  And that limp you see when I walk?  I'm not trying to be gangsta.  I broke my foot almost 6 years ago but didn't go to a doctor because I was busy caring for my mother and holding her hand while she died.  By the time she passed 3 months later the bones and tendons had already healed improperly making it permanently painful to put pressure on that foot.

These are invisible scars that I carry with me every day of my life, but they aren't the only ones.  I also suffer from a neurological disorder that causes chronic migraines.  If you've never had a real (and don't come to me with a headache and say it's a migraine. It only makes me want to punch you) migraine, you have no idea.  Here's how I KNOW that you don't have a migraine.

1. You've never thrown up on  yourself because you were unable to see and/or too dizzy to make it to the bathroom.
2. You've never had to walk out of a movie theater because, with the house lights blacked out, the screen feels like a flashlight burning your retinas.
3. You've never had to take unpaid leave from work because the micro-flashing of the computer screen that most people don't even notice is making you want to kill yourself.
4. You've never had anyone accuse you of being moody or bitchy because they can't see you're actually just fighting pain that they could never imagine.
5. You've never cancelled plans (repeatedly) with friends at the last minute.
6. You've never been denied a job or promotion because, no matter how talented or qualified you are, the hiring manager doesn't want an employee that calls in sick all the time.
7. You don't avoid certain women who decide to bathe in perfume each morning. Oh yeah, and you aren't able to smell EVERYTHING around you.
8.  You've never worn sunglasses INSIDE because the office lights are too much.
9. The sun is not your enemy.
10. You eat all you want at potlucks because you don't worry that someone might have brought something with an ingredient that could trigger a migraine and ruin your life for hours, days, or weeks.

I could go on, but I think I've made my point.  Migraine is yet another silent scar that I carry every day of my life.  Whenever you see a doctor they always ask how you feel on a scale of 1-10.  On my best, most excellent, most fabulous days I'm still at a 2.  Yes, I am in pain every minute of every day of my life and have been for the past 27 years.  I get told regularly that I should see a doctor.  Seriously.  People ACTUALLY say that to be helpful.  What they don't know is that I've seen 22 different doctors and tried 47 different medications and counting.  I could tell them, but pain is just exhausting and I've given up on trying to "fix" anyone.

So I've shown you two types of silent scars.  But there's another that is more destructive, more malicious, more ugly than those.  A pain born silently by millions.  It's called mental illness.   I've personally suffered from depression and anxiety most of my life but it didn't become truly serious until 2001.  That's when I started taking medication.  I didn't start seeing a therapist until after my mom died in 2011.  Best decision I ever made.  The problem with mental illness is that there are millions of Americans that don't believe it exists.  They believe eating healthy, drinking water, and exercising will cure mental illness.  Now, I'm not bashing a healthy lifestyle. I agree on the importance of trying to live a healthier life.  I've changed my diet, given up sugary drinks in favor of water, and work out with a trainer 2-3 times a week.  But guess what?  I still have anxiety and depression.

Society has placed such a stigma on mental illness that many of its victims are too afraid to seek help.  Some are too afraid to admit that there IS a problem.  Suicide is one of the leading killers in this country because we aren't doing enough to provide resources to combat it.  This is especially true for the homeless or low income individuals.  Thousands of individuals are languishing in the prison system because our "Tough on Crime" legislators don't grasp that these people need doctors and medication, not bars and cells.  They only thing confinement does for those battling mental illness is place more stigma on them and make them even more mentally unstable.

We've decided to place all disorders of the brain under this umbrella of mental illness.  Everything from depression to schizophrenia, to dementia. But they are all so very different and require completely different resources.  Especially dementia.  Dementia itself has dozens of different variations.  Most people are fairly aware of Alzheimer's disease.  And we are now becoming more aware of Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy (CTE) as more and more professional athletes are being diagnosed with it.  One you may not have heard of, though, is Lewy Body Dementia.  This is the disorder that caused Robin Williams to end his life in 2014.  There are dozens more forms of dementia, but no one has heard of them because no one is discussing them.  No one wants to have that conversation.

Silent scars come in a million different ways from a million different illnesses/injuries.  Just because someone looks fine does not by any stretch mean that they aren't fighting a war inside their body.  Most of us have adapted to powering through.  We don't show our scars.  We certainly don't discuss them with strangers.  Actually we don't even discuss them with those closest to us until they present a limitation or otherwise become an issue.  I know I don't.  Until now.

I'm sharing this with all you strangers because I need you to stop looking at others and judging them without knowing what wars they are fighting inside.  Maybe they fell off a roof years ago creating a permanent disability.  Maybe they were sent to war only to return with PTSD.  Maybe they were raped and now feel terror when out in public.  The point is, you don't know.  So stop making judgements.  They make those of us trying to get by one day at a time feel lonely and isolated.  I'm going to leave you with a quote from Robin Williams.  He is as inspiring in death as he was in life.

The Trump Delusion

Okay kids, now that you've read the last post (and I'm sure you all did) and we're all up to speed with how we got to this concept of an Electoral College that ignores the will of the people, now we can get into how they're making a big f***ing mistake.  Let's take a look at the candidate the Electoral College has vowed to stand behind (even though there's no law saying that they have to.) and some of the things he has had to say.

"Crooked Hillary is not qualified!” Tweeted 13 July 2016

Really?  Hillary isn't qualified to hold a political office?  She's been an attorney, a Senator, she was even Secretary of State of Christ's sake.  What exactly makes you qualified to work in political office, Mr. Trump?  You do understand that the Presidency is all about serving the people and not yourself, right?

"You know, it really doesn’t matter what they write as long as you’ve got a young and beautiful piece of ass. But she’s got to be young and beautiful." Esquire Magazine May 1991

First, women aren’t possessions.  You don’t own them.  Second, I may not be old, my youth is certainly behind me.  I may not be conventionally beautiful, at least not by his standards, but I am an exceptionally beautiful woman.  I have more knowledge and more expertise than the average bimbo that he would hire.  You hire based on talent, sir.  Not on who looks best sucking your dick.

"You could see there was blood coming out of her eyes, blood coming out of her wherever." Commenting on interviewer Megyn Kelly after a debate.

Are you so juvenile that you must chalk up any woman standing up to you as being on her ’rag’?  Grow up you petty, petty little boy.

“Donald J. Trump is calling for a total and complete shutdown of Muslims entering the United States. “ Statement released by the Trump campaign 7 Dec 2015

I’m looking into my crystal ball and all I see is Trump relocating all Muslims already living in America to internment camps just like FDR did to the Japanese.

"He's not a war hero. He was a war hero because he was captured. I like people who weren't captured." July 2015 Commenting on Senator McCain’s reputation as a war hero.

Really?  You strut your patriotism like a preening peacock but fail to recognize the sacrifices thousands of veterans have made to make it possible for you to be such an ass?  How about we drop you off is Syria and see how you fair.  Would you become what you consider a war hero?  I think not.

"Look at that face! Would anyone vote for that? Can you imagine that, the face of our next president?!" Commenting on opponent Carly Fiorina

I don’t think I’ll ever be accused of supporting Carly and her own hate speech, but this isn’t a beauty contest. It isn’t Miss Universe.  It’s a Presidential campaign.  Looks have nothing to do with it (blatantly obvious since you won, after all).

"I dealt with Qaddafi. I rented him a piece of land. He paid me more for one night than the land was worth for two years, and then I didn't let him use the land. That's what we should be doing. I don't want to use the word 'screwed', but I screwed him. That's what we should be doing." Said during a phone interview with Fox and Friends March 2011

Yeah…That’s the PERFECT foreign policy to adopt.  That’ll really drum up allies.  Just wait till you f*** over Putin.  I bet he’ll be a little less forgiving.

 "There were people that were cheering on the other side of New Jersey, where you have large Arab populations," he told the crowd. "They were cheering as the World Trade Center came down.” Referring to Muslims cheering on 9/11

Here’s the problem with that statement.  Every news outlet across the globe was covering New York that day.  There were citizens with cell phone videos, spectators everywhere, journalists a plenty yet no one, NOT ONE SINGLE SOUL has any proof of this statement being true.  There is video footage, still frame photography, and witness statements that contradict Trump’s statement beyond a shadow of doubt.  Still, Julius Caesar stands by what he “saw”.

“I’ve said that if Ivanka weren't my daughter, perhaps I would be dating her." Commenting on how he would feel if his daughter posed for Playboy.

Can we just stop for a second and acknowledge that Ivanka is HIS DAUGHTER.  His child!  This is the caliber of person that many of you out there elected.

"Our great African-American President hasn't exactly had a positive impact on the thugs who are so happily and openly destroying Baltimore." Commenting on the Baltimore riots.

President Obama has made a few mistakes here and there, but I really don’t think we can blame him for the behavior of every one of his 300 million constituents.  How about we blame the officers that directly led to the death of Freddie Gray instead.

"I think apologizing's a great thing, but you have to be wrong. I will absolutely apologize, sometime in the hopefully distant future, if I'm ever wrong." During an interview with Jimmy Fallon Sep 2015

Wow.  Donald Trump has never been wrong.  Never.  Who knew we had Jesus walking amongst us?

"When Mexico sends its people, they're not sending the best. They're sending people that have lots of problems and they're bringing those problems. They're bringing drugs, they're bringing crime. They're rapists and some, I assume, are good people, but I speak to border guards and they're telling us what we're getting." June 2015 upon announcing his candidacy.

Enough with the immigrants!  He seriously believes that Mexicans are all criminals.  He believes it so deeply he asked a judge to step down from a lawsuit because the judge had Mexican heritage.  He wants to build a wall and actually expects to get Mexica to pay for it.  Forget cocaine.  This guy must be tripping on LSD.

 "I have a great relationship with the blacks. I've always had a great relationship with the blacks." April 2011

Can we all agree not to call them “the blacks”?  They are African Americans.  More importantly, they are people.  Start treating them that way.

"The concept of global warming was created by and for the Chinese in order to make U.S. manufacturing non-competitive." Tweeted 6 Nov 2012

95% of all scientists agree that 1. Global warming IS happening, and 2. Mankind is to blame.  But let’s not confuse the situation with facts.

"I love the poorly educated." Part of his Nevada caucus acceptance speech

I don’t think I really need to comment on that, do I?

Which brings us to the piece de resistance.  The Billy Bush tapes.

 "I don't even wait. And when you're a star, they let you do it, you can do anything ... grab them by the pussy."

Trump and his supporters have played this off as “locker room talk”.  I’ve been around a lot of ‘boys being boys’.  Yes, they like to brag about their conquests.  But they do NOT brag about sexual assault.  That’s what this was.  Plain and simple.  And if other boys DO talk like this and I just haven’t been around to hear it, then they should shut the fuck up, too.

Since the release of those tapes dozens of women have come out to share their stories of how Trump assaulted them.  Assault survivors across the country have suffered flashbacks and panic attacks about their own assaults after hearing those words.  I am one of them.

Do not tell us to “calm down”.  Do not tell us to “get over it”.  This is our reality.  We fear for our minority friends.  We fear for those of the LGBTQ society.  We fear for our national security.  We fear for our economy.  So no, we won’t “calm down”.  We will continue to fight.  This election may be over, but there are more to come.  And we will not back down.  We’ll be the greatest.  I promise you.

Brought to you compliments of a proud Nasty Woman.

Government 101

When I started this blog I wanted to be as inclusive as possible.  I wanted everyone to see a part of themselves here.  For that reason I have intentionally stayed away from politics and religion.  However, we are in a unique situation right now.  One that I simply can't ignore.  As Americans we believe in democracy and the notion that all men are created equal.  But we've established a political system that runs contrary to these core beliefs.  We've ended up with a 2-party system where those shunning big politics and flying the banner of the Independent party have essentially given up their power and ability to participate in our government.  We also have an electoral college that unfairly assigns power to those states with the least citizens and, therefore, steals the voice from the majority.

So how did we get here?  I'm glad you asked.  Almost 250 years ago a bunch of white, land-owning men got together to try to come up with a system of government for our fledgling nation.  There was a great rift between those that believed in a strong centralized government and those that felt a centralized government sounded too much like a monarchy and we left England to get away from such a system.  So they compromised on a system where the majority of responsibilities of governing (policing, education, social services) would be maintained by the individual states, but that larger matters (printing money, organizing a military, regulating a free market) would be handled by a representative government (side note: My spell check has made me acutely aware that I apparently don't know how to spell the word 'government'.  That's probably why I became an accountant.)

So, the states got to maintain most of their independence while still having the support of a larger national government made up of their representatives.  But who are the representatives?  How are they chosen?  How many do we each get?  If we award representation based on population, then small states like Connecticut and Delaware will have very little say.  But if we give every state an equal number of representatives then large states like New York and Pennsylvania get very little say.  What to do?  What to do?  Welcome Congress.  Congress is composed of 2 separate houses, one built of representation based on population (the House) and one giving equal voice to each state (the Senate).  Every issue of national importance must be approved by each house so both the big states, the small states, and everyone in between goes home happy.

Not quite.  There was another issue driving this concept of representation other than population.  Slavery.  Citizens of the southern states felt that, when it comes to counting population, slaves should count.  Women and indentured white farm workers counted, so why not slaves?  Okay, I'm going to answer that question, but don't shoot the messenger.  These are the thoughts of our founding fathers, not me.  Here we go.  Slaves were not counted as part of the population because they weren't considered human.  They were chattel. They were bought and sold on the free market just like pigs and horses. A pig doesn't count so why should (once again, not my word) a negro?  By excluding slaves from the census we would almost guarantee that the southern states would bail on the whole Constitutional Convention and form their own sovereign entities.  People like James Madison knew this would be a deal breaker and end their foray into democracy before it even began so he proposed the Three Fifths compromise.  Each slave would be valued equal to 60% of a free man for census purposes.  So now all the states feel they're being heard and receiving fair representation.

This brings us to the Electoral College.  I hate to say it, but the founding fathers didn't exactly have implicit trust in you and I.  Actually they didn't have trust in me at all.  I'm a woman (a nasty woman, but we'll save that for Part II).  The only citizens who were permitted to vote were other white, land-owning men.  Being a land owner was essential, but the founding fathers basically thought farmers were too stupid to understand what they were voting for.  So they put in place the Electoral College, a group of white, land-owning men nominated by each state to cast the all important votes for the Presidency on behalf of the citizens of their respective states.

Now, everyone knows that it's possible to win the most individual votes but still lose the election, but most people don't quite understand how.  Let me try to break it down for you.  When it comes to passing laws, having 2 separate houses, one based on population and one on equal representation, makes sense because the 2 vote independently of each other.  A bill has to be approved by the House (yay large and slave states) then it has to pass the Senate (shout out to all you small states).  But when it comes to electing a President those 2 get lumped together. So if you have 53 members in the House and 2 in the Senate, you get 55 Electoral votes.  Conversely, if you have 1 member in the House and 2 in the Senate you get 3 votes.  I know this is getting weird but stay with me.

This SOUNDS okay, doesn't it?  Each state should have the same number of votes as they do Congressional representatives.  It SOUNDS good, but when you do the math, it just doesn't work out.  For example.  The state of Wyoming has the lowest population of the 50 states.  It's so low (less than 600,000) that it only has 1 member in the House.  So, Wyoming gets 1 vote for their congressperson and 2 votes for their Senators, 3 total.  That works out to 1 Presidential vote for every 200k citizens in Wyoming.  Not bad.  Now lets look at California.  California's population is nearly 39 million entitling it to 53 members of the House. So it has 53 votes for their congresspersons and 2 for their Senators, 55 total. That works out to 1 vote for every >700,000 citizens.  Seems kind of unbalanced now, doesn't it?  As if that weren't bad enough almost every state in the Union (excluding Maine and Nebraska) have a winner-take-all Electoral system.  So if 51% of voters in a state vote for a particular candidate, that candidate gets 100% of the state's Electoral votes.  Essentially, if you vote for a candidate that doesn't win the popular vote in your state, too bad.  Your vote doesn't count at all.  Oh yeah, and did I mention that there's no federal law saying the Elector MUST go along with the popular vote?  Historically they do, but there's nothing stopping them from going rogue and voting for their rich but simple-minded nephew.

If you stayed awake through that last paragraph, I want to sincerely thank you.  The informed voters of America thank you.

Bottom line here, America was founded as a democratic republic.  We are supposed to believe that all men are created equal.  It's right there in the Declaration of Independence.  2nd paragraph.  Look it up.  But the Electoral College is a very firm reminder that, even today, not all men are created equal.  It was formed out of fear on the part of the founding fathers that we aren't intelligent enough to elect a President on our own.  Maintaining the antiquated system of an Electoral College denigrates the intelligence of American citizens and negates the voice and the will of the people. This past Tuesday was the second time in my lifetime that I saw a person declared President-elect who did not have the support of the majority.  It's happened a total of 5 times in American history.  I can only hope and pray that it doesn't happen again.

Poetic Justice

I read an article today on CNN.com about body shaming in the entertainment industry.  It was a stark reminder to me that us Fat Lane-ers do not hold the market on shame.  The article shone a bright light on how much celebrities get body shamed, some for being too fat, some too thin.  The article highlighted women that have been accused of having butts, boobs, or belly.  It also addressed the struggles of pencil thin models and actresses constantly having to defend themselves against accusations of anorexia.  I wasn't surprised.  I was just sad.  These women, these human beings, were broken down into their pieces.  They were compared to animals and attacked for insect-like limbs or elephant thighs.  

As I pondered the sad state of current human relations one of the first things that came to my mind was Walt Whitman's I Sing the Body Electric.  The way he describes the eyes, the limbs, the torso.  It's truly beautiful.  But that beauty is contrasted by the realization that the piece is a commentary on the slave trade.  Human beings broken down based on their physical utility.  Beautiful men and women bought, sold, traded for their strong shoulders, ample chests, and the prospect of equally endowed offspring to continue the master's benefit.  Whitman refers to the auctioneer as one who "does not know half his business."  In this we are reminded that there is so much more to a body than what we choose to see.  That the sinews and skin are an outer manifestation of what lies deep within.  Strong, but tempered hearts and minds beleaguered to a menial existence.  Quietly reveling in the artistry that lies just under the surface known only by the soul.   

Now here we are over a century later and we are still creating chattel of people.  Instead of plowing or sewing we ask that they sing or perform for us.  Once again human beings broken down based on their physical utility.  And again I am saddened.  But then I'm reminded of Maya Angelou's Phenomenal Woman.  I love the line, "I'm not cute or built to fit a fashion model's size."  She describes the beauty in the reach of our arms and the span of our hips.  Men wonder but are unable to understand the inner mystery of a woman.  I guess, much like Whitman's auctioneer, they simply don't know half their business.  Women exist in a paradox of outward beauty and inner care and grace.

Which leads me to one of my favorite poems of all time.  "She walks in beauty, like the night / Of cloudless climbs and starry skies; / And all that's best of dark and bright / Meet in her aspect and her eyes; / Thus mellowed to that tender light / Which heaven to gaudy day denies."  -- Lord Byron  I've only written the first of 3 stanzas here for brevity's sake, but throughout the poem you are presented a beautiful woman without actually being told of her physical beauty.  We don't know her height nor her eye color.  We know nothing of her curves.  All we are given is an air of elegance expressed through the dichotomy of light and dark.  Each of us has a picture of the woman that they have constructed for ourselves, but the author had ensured that no two pictures are alike.

I wish I lived in a world of Whitman's, Angelou's, and Byron's.  Well, maybe not Byron.  Byron is...hmmm...let's just say controversial.  But the underlying premise remains.  I want people to know me for my talents and not my dress size.  I want a boy to be intrigued, not intimidated, by my intellect.  I want people to talk to me at parties because I have interesting things to say.  I want to dance without people laughing, though that might be asking a bit too much.  And I want to do the same for others.  Maybe someday.  A girl can always dream.

The Right Angle

I have a new dress.  I like my new dress.  It's a very pretty dress.  Except from behind.  Or a slight profile.  Or if I'm slouching.  Ah hell, let's just call a spade a spade.  The dress is very pretty. It's me that's ruining the aesthetic.

There is a constant monologue running through my head, no matter what I'm wearing.  I get dressed in the morning just like everyone else on the planet, but then I have to take an extra 20 minutes or so (some days more 'or so' than others) to examine myself in the mirror from every conceivable angle.  Then I make a mental list of things like 'don't hunch or your back fat looks gross', 'turn a little to the right when facing people so they don't see as much cleavage', and/or 'make sure to pull the front of your tunic down regularly throughout the day or else the back will look way longer than the front and that's just weird'.  Many of you might be starting to think I'm just little bit OCD off the deep end.  For those of you that read the previous statements and said 'I know, right?!?!?! then congratulations.  You're living life in the fat lane.

I really, really hope there are others out there that have the same pre-'leaving the house' ritual that I do.  I'm typically a VERY punctual person.  I'm punctual to the point of actually having been born on my exact due date.  I hate to keep people waiting. So if you're expecting me at a certain time, and I message you that I'm running late, it's probably because I can't get my right calf to be as skinny in a certain pair of jeans as my left calf.  Or maybe it's because I spent an hour doing my hair and it looks so shiny and bouncy, but for some reason it's enhancing my double chin so I have to figure out how to have bouncy hair AND a thinner neck both at the same time.  The struggle is real, people.

NBC has a new show out this fall called This Is Us that's giving me hope that I'm not alone in all this.  If you haven't seen the first 2 episodes, get your butt online or On Demand and catch up.  It's freaking amazing.  I won't go into all the characters; I just want to focus on two of them, Kate and Toby.  Kate and Toby meet at a support group for what I've decided to call Fat Lane-ers (my words, not NBC's).  Toby hits on Kate but she turns him down saying that she can't get involved with someone overweight.  Toby says 'I guess I'll just have to lose the weight.'  He wins her over and they start dating. In last week's episode Toby convinces Kate to go to a Hollywood party.  There's a pivotal scene where Kate looks around and sees everyone around her laughing.  To the rest of the world all those people are talking and laughing and enjoying a party. To Kate they're laughing at her and joking about how many tarps it must have taken to make a dress her size. I know this because it's exactly how I feel in any number of my very pretty dresses.

Chrissy Metz is the actress that plays Kate.  She's just playing a part, but she's still a woman.  And she's still a Fat Lane-er.  I'm imagining her standing in front of a mirror in her dressing room turning herself left, right, over-the-shoulder, shoulders back but not too far back when she hears a knock at the door and the words, 'Five minutes, Ms. Metz.'  And then she knows she has to go out there and be Kate.  That's gotta be hard to do.  I can't imagine being the fat chick on national television.  Hell, I won't even take selfies with my dearest friends.  I stand in awe of Chrissy's bravery and fortitude.  She's playing a part, but that part represents the third of all American women who are considered obese, myself included.  She gives us a name, a heart, a soul.  She creates a space for all of us to exist.

So, in honor of Chrissy Metz, I will wear my pretty dress.  And I will adore my pretty dress.  I will not worry about my back fat, or my cleavage, or whether or not all of my fat has been properly lashed down under my Spanx.  No.  I will walk confidently.  I will feel the lace swish across my legs.  I will feel feminine.  I will feel proud.  And I will thank Chrissy Metz for having the courage to do the same.

Looking Back

Do you people know how much time goes into finding just the right photo or meme for these posts?  It's cause I love you all so very much.  Recognize.

I heard a song on the radio today that really inspired me.  It's called Dear Younger Me by Mercy Me.  Yeah, it's Christian music, but I think you heathens can groove to it as well.  At first it speaks to the lament of not being able to give your younger self some kind of warning - a head's up of what's to come.  Maybe that could save you some of the heart aches that will define you later in life. Some pain is so deep that we carry it forever.  For example, when I was 10 years old my parents let me watch the movie 'It' based on the Stephen King novel (somebody give them a 'parents of the year' medal).  To this day I am terrified of clowns.  I even have a refrigerator magnet that says "Can't sleep. Clowns will eat me."  Yes, it is awesome, and no, you can't have it.

Other hurts are much more sinister and do so much more lasting damage.  Losing a parent at a young age, being a victim of abuse, witnessing a serious crime; these are all events that leave deep scars on the psyche.  They force you to adopt coping mechanisms that, while serving a purpose at the time, become destructive hindrances in years to come.  I'm still afraid of the dark.  I'm afraid of strangers.  Most importantly, I'm afraid of being alone.  I'm less afraid of death than I am of being alone in this world.

But the song goes on to make a very important point; Changing our past decisions change the person who we are now.  And who we become is something pretty special.  We all start off as a blank slate, but gain battle scars over time that show that we really lived.  Every wrinkle, every line, every stretch mark, every tattoo is a trophy. They each tell a story.  Our own human version of "I was here."

My favorite part of the song is:

Every mountain, every valley
Through each heartache you will see
Every moment brings you closer
To who you were meant to be

So no, for the most part I wouldn't go back and talk to that kid.  Well...I might go back and tell her not to get fat.  And I'd DEFINITELY stop her from watching 'It'.  Other than that I would just hug her tightly and remind her that there will always be people there to help her when the dark moments come.

Which brings me to the meme above.  We're going to fall down.  Both literally and metaphorically.  I have the scars from getting stitches and a prescription for anxiety meds to prove both true.  We can't keep our kids from getting hurt.  The best we can do is to teach them how to recover from the fall.  I think the next time I fall down (I do it so often), I'm going to try jumping up and saying 'Ta-Da!'  It's certainly better than my current super hero catch phrase of, 'Well, fuck.'  Then I'll add it to my wall of accomplishments and try to do better the next time.

Hallway Gossip

This was my best friend from 1st grade right up till about 11th grade on the night of our junior prom.  We were inseparable for over a decade.  We never made any decisions without consulting the other person first.  There wasn't anything we wouldn't do for each other.  Then she started dating guys that I didn't really approve of and things went down hill.  We tried to rekindle things after high school. We got even got an apartment together.  But then she did a series of things that betrayed me and my trust and we went separate ways.  I haven't spoken to her in 16 years

Girls see trust a lot differently than guys do.  Guys live by 'bro-code'.  It's actually rather simple.  It states that your boys must always come before any girl and that you should never take the last beer, even if you were the one that brought said beer.  That's about it.

Girls are a completely different animal.  We have our own 'girl-code' but it's slightly more complicated.  If it were put on paper, girl-code would resemble an engineering schematic or the org chart for a multi-national firm.  There's a lot of 'If-Then' situations.  Sometimes it feels like one of those 'Choose Your Own Adventure' books.  Just like the books, sometimes you reach the Crystal Palace safely, but sometimes you get eaten by a dragon.  It's just how girl code works.  Even us girls don't understand it all the time.  That's why we talk so much.  We're trying to navigate haunted forests and mine fields together.

Girls, on average, tend to trust people implicitly.  The downside is, once that trust is broken, it's typically lost forever.  I went through a situation long ago in a previous job where something bad was said about me at work and multiple "friends" came forward to tell me who the specific "friend" was that had made the offensive comment.  All of a sudden I was working on the set of Dynasty (metaphorically speaking) with a lot of bitching and back-biting going on around me.  In the end I found out the truth, but by then I had lost trust in everyone.  I didn't believe a single thing any of my coworkers said to me.  A mentor once told me to never get my hugs at work, and she was right, but you have to be able to have some basic level of trust with the people in your work environment.  Without trust there's no collaboration.  Without collaboration you become no better than Congress.

I no longer work for that company, but the ripples of the betrayal I felt then still resonate throughout my brain.  I constantly wonder what people think of me both personally and professionally.  No matter how hard I work, I fear performance appraisals.  I feel like people misunderstand me and judge me harshly because of it.  And don't even get me started about the words "we need to talk."

I guess the moral here is simply to say what you mean and mean what you say.  Be direct.  If you have an issue with someone, don't talk about it with anyone else until you talk to that person first.  And for God's sake, if someone says something bad about another person to you, keep your ass out of it.  You aren't in high school anymore, so don't act like you are.  Encourage them to talk to the person directly.  Be Switzerland.  If you don't, whether you intend it or not, you become part of the problem and your friend or colleague will never be your friend or colleague ever again.  They will lose any trust or respect that they once had for you.  You could unwittingly damage the psyche of a person you actually care about.  It's not worth it.  Respect your self, and your friends, enough to be worthy of trust.  Do that, and life will become much less of a mine field.

No ALWAYS Means No

I've been wanting to write about this topic for a long time, especially since the Brock Turner story broke.  I've just been so afraid.  One of the most compelling arguments I have for sharing this story is because I have a voice in my head reminding me that I tell others to speak their minds, even if their voices shake, so I'm going to try to do the same.  Still, I'm very nervous so bear with me.

When I started school at Ohio State I was forced to sit through a seminar for all new students (both male and female).  I'm not sure what the actual title was but it might as well be "How Not To Get Raped: A Woman's Responsibility."  The lecturer started off by addressing anyone in the audience (roughly 200 students give or take) who had ever been a victim of abuse or sexual assault.  She said, 'whatever you did then, you did right because you are here today.  You are a survivor."  Then she went on to speak for over an hour about the types of clothing girls should and should not wear whenever they leave the 'safety' of the dorms.  She reminded students to be responsible when drinking and not to overindulge.  She talked about the buddy system and never being alone.  Not once, not one single time in over an hour, did she say, 'Oh, and you guys out there, try not to rape anyone.'  Because apparently it's up to the woman whether she ends up getting raped or not.

I'll admit, I have a lot of low-cut clothing, dresses in particular.  This isn't entirely my fault.  At some point in the past all the clothing manufacturers got together and agreed that fat girls want to show off their boobs.  Yes, us thick girls DO tend to have bigger breasts, but that doesn't mean we want them constantly emphasized.  I have very pretty eyes and I'm proud of my toned calves.  I also have a sharp mind and a quick wit.  I'd prefer to let those assets do the talking.  Unfortunately I'm an accountant, not a designer, so I don't get to decide what clothing gets produced.  So my only fashion choices are low-cut or 'Mormon prairie dress'.  The important thing here is that, regardless of which option I choose, I'm choosing it because of how I feel wearing it, not because I want you to have easy access.

A few years ago I got invited to a bachelorette party.  There were 15 or 20 of us (it was a very big group) so we inevitably got separated from time to time, but we always made sure to be back at the party bus at an agreed upon time to proceed to the next venue.  After a few hours of bar hopping my ears were ringing so I slipped out of the club to grab a smoke and clear my head.  That's when I met him.  I don't know his name.  To be honest, I don't know if we even exchanged names.  I do know that there was some flirting leading to some serious kissing.  Yes, I was wearing a low-cut dress.  Yes, I had been drinking.  No, I didn't take another one of the girls with me when I ducked outside.  I didn't follow any of the 'How Not To Get Raped' rules.  He kissed me and I kissed him back.

Everything was cool right up until he put his hand in my dress and grabbed by breast.  I pulled his hand away, still kissing, and put it on my waist.  But he tried it again, somewhat more insistently.  This time I pulled away completely.  I said no.  He grabbed my wrist and pulled me back at which point I shoved him and yelled NO.  He grabbed the back of my neck and yelled into my ear that I shouldn't put them (i.e. my breasts) on display if they're not for sale.  Then he put out his cigarette on my breast and walked away.

They say that humans have 2 fear responses; fight or flight, but that's incorrect.  There's also 'freeze'.  I don't know how long I stood there.  It took a while before I knew what had just happened.  I don't remember feeling any pain from the burn.  I just stood there.  Frozen.  Until one of the girls grabbed my arm and told me we were heading back to the bus. By then he was long gone.

I didn't tell anyone for a long time.  I felt responsible.  I was in my 30's so I should have known better.  I didn't follow any of the girl code.  I was ashamed.  There was no way I was going to press charges.  I didn't even know the guy's name.  The police would just look at me like a common whore.  Eventually my therapist convinced me to talk to my friends about it.  So I chose one of my closest friends and told her.  First she asked me to prove it.  Then she said, 'So you're what?  Looking for sympathy?'  Well...yeah...a little.  Isn't that what friends are supposed to do for each other?  Being shamed by your friend feels even worse than the assault itself.  It robs you of the tentative shred  of security that you're clinging to.  You feel like maybe you did deserve it and you become a victim all over again.

A lot has happened in my life over the past several years.  Actually, most of the growth I've experienced has come in the past year.  I've taken back my identity.  I've learned to appreciate my beauty.  I value myself.  I value the people in my life and my relationships.  I have far fewer friends now than I did in the past, but the ones I've kept are the ones who would never ask me to prove whether or not I was assaulted.  I've learned that sexual assault comes in many forms and measures.  I know that nothing I ever do or say will ever give someone domain over my body.

I'm grateful that I wasn't raped that night.  Things could have turned out much worse.  Still, I was assaulted and it broke me for a good length of time.  But I reached a point where I knew I needed help.  As ashamed as I was, I asked for help and I received help.  I wish that for every woman.  I wish every woman has the courage to speak up for herself, her friends, her sisters and her daughters.  I wish our educational and governmental institutions would stop insisting on telling women not to get raped and instead focus their energy on keeping men from being rapists.  Thinking back on that lecture at OSU, I can say unequivocally that I agree with the speaker on one point - anyone who survives assault did the right thing.  They survived.  And I wish that for everyone.

The Lord Giveth...

Always.  It doesn't always feel that way.  Actually, it seldom feels that way.  It's no secret that my family has been going through some trials lately.  Today I was hit with one heck of a blow out of left field.  It left me bruised and somewhat broken lying sullen and confused on the floor  But I'm supposed to be thankful.  I'm supposed to be thankful?  For what?

Are you familiar with the Biblical story of Job?  I'm about to paraphrase it rather poorly just to make a point so don't you Biblical scholars come after me about skipping details.  Basically there was this dude, Job, who was super faithful to God.  You could say he was God's #1 fan.  And God loved Job right back.  Satan couldn't stand seeing God being all smug about his devoted follower so he made a bet with God.  He told God that the only reason that Job was so faithful was because God had blessed Job with abundance.  Satan reasoned that, should God take away those blessings, Job would turn against God in a hot second.

Now God doesn't have anything to prove, he's God after all.  He's the coolest person ever.  But he decides to take Satan up on his bet anyway.  He allows Satan to begin slowly, systematically dismantling Job's life.  Satan to takes Job's livestock, then his children, his wealth, even his physical health.  Job is understandably freaked out by this.  He's been faithful.  He's been pious.  Why hast God forsaken him?

I get it.  I don't profess myself to be half the Christian that Job was, but I get it.  I've slowly watched the few things in my life that bring me joy and security eliminated, not slowly with the breeze, but suddenly like a mighty storm.  I have questioned God.  I've even challenged God.  I don't understand how I got to here.  How my family arrived at this state.  I've tried to be hopeful.  I even started this blog months ago in the hopes of bringing joy to other people's lives.  But still, the things I love are being taken away one by one.

Back to Job.  Job suffered terribly.  His friends and loved ones implored him to curse God or to admit to whatever secret sin he had committed to create such suffering.  But Job remained faithful.  He did not curse God.  He DID curse the day he was born but, come on, the poor guy had a bunch of dead kids and sores all over his body. You'd be pissed, too.  I don't know how, but Job managed to keep his faith and understand that God WAS with him.  Satan became infuriated with Job's devotion but had to admit defeat.  In the end God restored Job to an even better life than he has started with.

But here's the rub; I'm not Job.  I feel like my eternal soul is being used as a game, but not to my betterment.  Yeah, yeah.  I'm building a Kingdom in Heaven and everlasting joy and all that crap, but I could really go for some solace now.  I'm human.  I'm impatient.  I'm exhausted.  I can only be strong for so long before I give up.  So God, please help out a mortal.  Please help out your child.  Because right now, I really need something to always, always, always be thankful for.

Dress Code Confidential

Yesterday a friend shared a story on FB that I feel deserves national attention.  It won't get it, but the story deserves to be told.

A 9 year-old girl was recently given an in-school suspension for violating the dress code at Brookhaven Elementary School in Brookhaven, MS.  Why?  Because, according to the school the child's clothing was too tight fitting which violates their policy.  She was covered from neck to ankle, not showing boobs or butt (neither or which she has yet) or anything in between.  They problem was with her belly.  The girl happens to be overweight.  A lot of her clothing fits tightly around her belly.  If she wore clothing that fit properly around her mid-section, it would be too long which also, incidentally, violates Brookhaven's ridiculous policy.  So unless the parents go out and have a custom wardrobe made-to-measure for their child, the little girl will be in constant violation of a one-size-fits-all dress code.

All I can say is, you have got to be freaking kidding me.  Trust me, this child already gets enough hate out of her classmates.  The grown-ups in her life are supposed to be more mature and able to provide a safe place where children can thrive.  Instead they've misapplied a policy as a way of fat shaming a little girl.  She is just a child.  Do you really want to create an environment where a child feels attacked every day, not by children, but by administrators who should know better?  Go ahead.  That kid will end up dropping out and/or contemplating suicide before she even gets to puberty.

Think I'm being dramatic?  You obviously have never lived life in the fat lane.  Kids in the plus sized community are bombarded daily with images and advertising telling them what they should look like.  Their families, teachers, and other adults in their lives constantly drill into the heads that they don't meet society's arbitrary standard of beauty.  They feel ugly.  They try to spend time inside afraid of a critical, and sometimes downright cruel, public which leads them to an even more sedentary life, which invites even MORE criticism, and so on.  They develop depression and eating disorders.  Some resort to self harm.

I feel like we've made progress in recognizing and addressing discrimination towards minorities and those of different religions, sexual orientation, and gender identity.  No, things aren't Utopian, but we're slowly moving in the right direction.  Still, I don't feel like we've grown when it comes to recognizing different appearances.  'Fat' is not a protected class.  I don't think it should be a protected class, but I also don't think people should be bullied or demeaned simply because they fall into that demographic.

At the heart of this issue is a 9 year-old girl who will never look at herself the same way.  She was shamed and criticized by the people meant to protect her.  I'm sure she doesn't fully understand the situation and wonders what she did wrong.  On one hand I hope her parents sue the school district for what little amount it's worth.  But on the other hand I worry about what a discrimination suit would do to her fragile psyche.  We spend so much time telling our children about accepting others for their differences and not bullying.  Maybe the teachers are the ones that need schooled.  If you are so emotionally stunted that you are unable to show compassion to a child, then you have no place in a school.  Go elsewhere.  I'm sure the KKK and Aryan Nation are looking for recruits.  And they appreciate hate-mongering in their organizations.  God speed.

Persona Non Grata

Oh how I wish this weren't true, but it is.  And the feeling runs deep.  Years ago a friend of mine asked me to be a bridesmaid in her wedding.  I was honored to be asked, but I initially said no.  I told her I was too ugly and didn't want to ruin the aesthetic of her big day.  Yup.  I can be just that insecure.

Of course I eventually said yes.  That's how I found myself wearing a four-layer, floor-length, taffeta gown outdoors during (what felt like) one of the hottest days ever experienced on planet Earth.  And you know what?  I'd do it again.  For two reasons.  1. She was my friend and it gave me great joy to stand beside her on such a happy occasion.  2. In one of her wedding photos you can see me in the background laid out on a bench like a dead body.  Serves her right for picking those awful dresses.

Growing up I was teased constantly to the point that I lost almost all sense of self-worth.  I bought my friends presents, did their homework, did whatever they asked because I was afraid of no longer being useful.  I figured I wasn't attractive, I didn't have money, I didn't even have a car till I was 17 1/2.  I had to come up with other ways to avoid being unwanted.  As long as I was doing something for them, then I would never be unwanted.   I had a lot of unhealthy relationships back then.

You would think that type of insecurity would lessen as I became older and more mature.  You would think that, but you would be wrong.  In some ways it's worse now.  Now that I'm older all my friends are married with kids.  When we're together as a group everyone always ends up sharing stories about inept husbands, how to pick the right school, or (shudder) lactation advice.  I have absolutely nothing to add to these conversations.  I usually dig out my phone and try to make myself seem very busy.

Now that everyone in my sphere has paired off I feel like even more of a third wheel.  My friends don't even go by their own names anymore.  It's always, "Are John&Helen coming?' or "I ran into Dave&Lisa' the other day.  Or worse, 'The White's called while you were at work' or 'Will you ask the Richardson's if we can borrow their ladder?' At that point you don't even get your own name.  You become part of this amalgamation.  It makes me wonder if there is some strange, spontaneous gene splicing that is occurring as part of marital coitus.

Even on those moments where I do manage to steal a friend away from her ampersand for a moment. she usually has a couple kids on her at all times.  For some strange reason, a child can ignore their mother for days, but the second she picks up a phone it's "Mom!  Mom!  Look at me mom!  Mommy!  Hey, Mommy!"  I'm hoping Stephen Hawking will explore this phenomenon in his next book.  Either that or they start adding Valium to Flintstones' vitamins.  One of those two things needs to happen.  In the meantime, I remain the perpetual unmatched sock (another phenomenon that Hawking needs to look into, why do dryers eat socks?).

In all honesty, I can't hate on my friends for any of this.  It's just the natural progression of things.  Little girls grow up and get married.  When you take a spouse, that person automatically becomes the most important relationship in your life.  It has to.  Just like after you have a child that child replaces all others including your spouse.  I'm not sure our species would have lasted this long had it not been for this pattern.  Still, it's lonely.  I used to have a lot of girlfriends.  They're still my friends, I think.  They just haven't answered the phone in a few years.  Busy moms don't have spare time.  Unless you add up the microseconds accumulated while blinking.  Am I right, ladies?

When you've spent your life feeling unwanted by society, it becomes hard to adapt to these new roles that you all take on during adulthood.  I know my friends love me.  I know they'd like to spend more time with me.  But the part of my brain that stopped evolving at 16 years-old keeps insisting that these people, these so called 'friends' no longer want me.  I was good for a while, but now that they have shiny new families my services are no longer required.

Which brings me to where I'm basically at right now.  It's something I need to work on, but haven't quite figured out how.  I'm learning to say no.  I'm learning that friendships don't require services rendered.  There is no quid pro quo.  True friends don't know who owes whom because no one owes anyone else.  And if you DO know which friends owe you favors, take a long look at those relationships.  I'm learning that I'm not surplus and I'm definitely wanted.  I'm learning that my friends love me, even if I haven't heard from them in some time.  I'm learning that life often takes us in different, sometimes diverging, paths but that, where there is love, there is always a road back.

Good Company

I got some really good feedback on my last post (thanks everyone!) and it made me realize that I left out one super important fact.  For all of you who were, are, or ever will be dealing with mental health issues (so roughly billions of people), you are not alone.  Everyone goes through stuff.  Everyone. Everyone has their own story.  I don't mean to diminish your struggles.  I just want you to know that, should you ever find yourself in a dark place, you CAN talk to people about it.  I guarantee that whomever you chose to talk to has felt the same way at some point.  They will not diminish you or look down on you because they are you.

When I was younger I went to school with 4 girls who were all BFF's. I called them the Perfect 4. Perfect hair, perfect smiles, perfect GPA's, perfect families, perfect futures to look forward to at the perfect colleges.  Just completely and disgustingly perfect.  I'll admit I avoided them like the plague because I could never live up to their perfect brand of perfection.  I didn't want to be the bad guy for hating them, so I convinced myself that it was them that hated me. I was homely with an average GPA and a very lower middle class family.  I didn't have tons of friends.  I wasn't extraordinary in any way.  They must have thought I was beneath them, right?

I was wrong (duh).  Each member of the Perfect 4 had their own shit that they were dealing with.  I won't go into details because those aren't my stories to tell.  Just know that they were each lugging around their own baggage.  I don't know if they talked about it amongst themselves, but I have a feeling they didn't.  I know I didn't discuss my depression and anxiety with any of my friends (except for maybe Amy but that's because, as my BFF, she was technically just an extension of me and not a separate human being).

High school is rough, folks.  At my last reunion I asked people the age old question, If you could go back and do high school again, would you?  The answer is a resounding NO.  No from the band nerds, no from the drama geeks, no from the athletes, no from the cheerleaders.  Just no.  No one wants to go through high school again.  You live with your parents, you probably don't have a car, you have no money, and you have little to no say in what happens in your life.  Worst of all, wear the wrong jeans or shirt just once or get caught talking to someone not within your feudal circle and life as you know it is over.

As teenagers we like to think that our parents are clueless and have absolutely no idea what high school is like today.  It's so cute that teenagers think that way.  It's even more adorable that every generation of teenagers has felt this way since the dawn of high school, and that each generation thinks that things are different for them.  I'll admit that my parents didn't have Facebook or Instagram, but that just meant they had less opportunity to embarrass themselves publicly, thus rendering themselves social pariahs.

While I do believe that individuals can change, I do not think that the human condition will.  In high school everyone is pretending to be okay and just trying not to stand out.  Except the nerds.  This is one area where the nerds have it up on everyone else.  They already know that they are permanent outcasts so they are free to live their teen years however they choose.  They don't have a stake in the game.  Except the clueless nerds like me that thought they might have a chance of being upgraded from a life on the D list.  Silly, silly me...

Here's a little secret that might help.  You can pretty much bank on the fact that every person in your school feels just like you.  All of you are tiptoeing the line between 'healthy, happy emotional state' and 'Oh God!  Kelsie just frowned at me.  What does that mean???  Am I wearing the wrong color today?  It is pink day, right?  Am I out?  I'm going to have to change schools!  Aaarrrggghhh!  What does that look mean???'  Calm now.  Kelsie didn't even notice you.  She's just eating lunch.  Her mom packed her a tuna salad sandwich and she hates tuna salad.  Or maybe she just has resting bitch face.  Regardless, IT ISN'T ALWAYS ABOUT YOU.

Whew.  Felt good to get that off my chest.  I don't know how my parents survived having 2 teenage daughters in high school at the same time without killing us.

But back to my original point. You are not alone.  You all feel anxious and insecure and just generally 'less than'.  All of you.  Even Kelsie.  But you teens, and the teens from my day (Go Rams!  C/O '97!), and all the ghosts of High School Past have felt the same insecurities.  No one talks about it because everyone believes that talking about it will cause people to look down on you or belittle you.  It's really a shame, because that's not true at all.  Maybe if I had talked to the Perfect 4 all those years ago I would have figured that out.

Sadly, us grown-ups carry those same insecurities around with us long after graduation.  The great irony of mental illness is that people hold it inside  and refuse to talk about it without ever realizing that all those people they are afraid of are holding in the same secret.  It's not like a heroin addiction or a felony conviction (not looking down on either of them; just needed an example).  This is a universal condition.  It doesn't take anything away from you.  It doesn't limit what you can accomplish.  The only way mental health issues will limit you is if you don't get help. It's exhausting.  Please.  I'm begging you.  Ask for help.  From a friend, from family, from a professional.  You aren't alone so don't feel like you have to go through it alone.  You owe it to the world to put the luggage down and go out there and show us what you've got.

The Lost Generation

I stumbled upon this meme today. My first reaction was, 'Yes! They should do that!'  Then I started reading the comments accompanying the post.  Man are people ever heated about this topic.  What I hope to be just a very vocal minority blames people for shirking the responsibility of parenting and leaving it up to educators.  I'll give an example of the mindless prattle being ignorantly spewed forth.  I think it sums up the emotions of the peanut gallery rather nicely: 

Why is it the school's responsibility to raise our children and teach them the things parents should be? Come on people! Wake up and teach your children these things! No one else should be responsible for it but the parents. If the parents can't handle it, then maybe they shouldn't have been one to begin with. --Jenn Fulton

Dear Jenn: No, some people shouldn’t be parents to begin with.  But that doesn’t stop stupid people from breeding.  Do you really want to deny a scared teenager help just because his/her parents are tools?  Maybe you’re the one who needs to ‘wake up’.

Children don’t decide what circumstances they are born into.  They don’t get to pick their parents.  They don’t choose to be born into poverty or abuse.  They can't control if their parents are present or absent, whether physically or emotionally.  I completely agree that parents SHOULD be responsible for raising and protecting their children.  But what should be, more often than not, is not what is.

So, let's all just agree that children deserve help from someone and that that someone might not necessarily be a parent.

That being said, let's address the kids themselves.  We as a society have already decided that we need to talk to our teens about sex (or abstinence), drugs, peer pressure, and bullying.  Why are we so afraid to talk about mental health?  Topics like depression and anxiety have been clouded in shame and this does a severe disservice to our children.

I didn't have the best childhood, but I knew that my parents loved me.  They told me I was smart and beautiful and capable of great things.  But I didn't believe them.  I spent my every waking moment comparing myself to the kids that I felt were smarter than me (I'm looking at you, Shannon). and the kids that were prettier than me (like Kelly's natural beauty) and the ones I felt were more capable of great things than I would ever be (if only I had Damon's talent).  My parents spent so much time telling me how great I am, but they never stopped to ask how I felt about the matter.  My mother was of the Tom Cruise school of thought when it came to psychiatry.  If you're sad, just think about something else.  Therapy and drugs are for quitters.  She never once discussed mental health in a positive manner with me.

So each day my parents would tell me I was smart and beautiful and capable of great things, just like good parents should.  Then they would pat me on the head and push me out the door and off to school to fend for myself.  And each day I would get a little more depressed and anxious, which I had been taught was a weakness, so I felt a little more worthless.  Each day I left another little piece of myself on that front stoop while I silently cried out to be allowed back inside.  

Please don't misunderstand; I'm not blaming my parents.  They did the best they knew how.  I just truly wish that they had been able to talk to me.  Or that I felt I was allowed to talk to them.  Luckily the world has changed a little since I left home almost 20 years ago. Now I speak openly about my struggles with anxiety and depression.  I take medication and I see a therapist.  I am not a bad person, or a weak person, or less of a person because of it.  And neither is anyone else.

I know it's a difficult topic, but I beg of all of you, please talk to the kids in your life about mental health.  I don't care if it's your kids, your nieces and nephews, your best friend's kids, kids at church, whatever.  If you see a teen is struggling, please throw them a rope. Don't just hope someone else will notice and intervene.   Also, don't be surprised if they push your hand away.  They may not be ready to talk about it, but at least you can plant a seed of hope.  Let them know that you will be there to help when they are ready.  

Maybe you feel it's not your place to butt in.  Maybe you feel it should be their parents' responsibility.  Maybe you're right.  But what I hope I've been able to communicate here is that it doesn't matter who SHOULD reach out.  All that matters is that someone does. 

--shared compliments of Crissy Gwinn

Family Ties

I couldn't tell you what year this photo was taken.  I'm thinking 1982? Maybe '83?  Look how much my sister and I love each other.  Just goes to show that seeing isn't always believing.

My sister and I were mortal enemies.  We fought hard.  Boy-fight type hard.  Fists and nails and using bad words that we didn't understand but we knew we weren't supposed to use hard.  Then again we were each other's most loyal protectors.  Once upon a time there was a boy that went to the same babysitter as Heather and I.  That was around the same time this picture was taken.  I don't remember his name but I know I didn't like him.  One day he decided to bite my sister.  Hard.  Hard enough to draw blood.  He bit the wrong person's big sister.  The next day I kicked him repeatedly until he fell to the ground.  Then I started jumping up and down on him while using some more of those bad words I wasn't supposed to use. I should probably feel guilty about it, but I don't.  That's my sister. If anyone is going to hurt her, it's damn well going to be me.

Family can be tricky.  You don't get to chose them.  From the day you are born you immediately become a branch on the old family tree-house of horrors. It's not just my family.  It's not just your family.  It's every family.  Every family has at least a few drops of crazy drifting around in the gene pool.  It's something you can't avoid.  Not even after you grow up and move away. Life will be going along smoothly until one day when you open you mouth and suddenly, inexplicably, you hear your mother's words.  Then shit gets real.

Don't get me wrong, I loved my mother with all my heart.  I loved her right up until that one day in my early 20's when someone said something glaringly obvious to me and I found myself replying, "Yeah. And if frogs had wings they wouldn't whomp their asses when they hopped."  W. T. F.  Thanks a lot, mom. You'll have to forgive her.  She grew up in rural West Virginia where she developed a tendency towards subtle racism and homespun turns of phrase.

Think you can avoid it because you were adopted?  Good luck with that one, buddy.  I have friends that were adopted and their circumstances are just as bleak when it comes to inheriting familial psychosis.  When you adopt a child, they become YOUR child.  I've said it before, but it bears repeating; Blood does not make families.  Love makes families.  So whether you were raised by your grandparents, a wonderful auntie, or complete strangers, you WILL inherit their crazy.

There is a silver lining, though.  You all have the same crazy.  That makes it seem not-so-crazy. You can be yourself with your family.  Up to a point, that is.  NO ONE wants to talk about your unnatural addiction to Barry Manilow records or that you name each of your toes.  They all know about it.  But it's like that night you came home in a squad car.  Everybody knows it happened.  We just don't talk about it.  Unless you're my mom's older sister, Fran.  Then you feel compelled to remind me about that thing that I did back when Reagan was in office that broke my mother's heart and how I should apologize forever to my saint of a mother.  I guess I just messed with the wrong girl's little sister.

In case that hasn't comforted you enough, the second silver lining is that we now have Valium. Valium hit the U.S. market in 1963.  I find it appropriate and comforting that Valium was available the same year that LBJ took over the presidency, Beatlemania swept across North America, and Coca-Cola introduced their first diet product called Tab (not in that order).  This was a country crying out for a crutch and, if there's anything pharmaceutical companies are good at, it's better living though chemistry.

Family is important,  Sometimes you may feel you need to be heavily medicated to deal with them, but deal with them you must.  My sister and I used to be sparring partners once upon a time, but now we care deeply for each other.  Those familial bonds are important.  They are your refuge, your haven.  Family is where you turn when the rest of the world just doesn't make sense. My mom was the youngest of 6 children.  When I was young I felt bad for her having to grow up in such a big family, but now I know just how lucky she was and how lucky I am to have inherited them.  Or maybe that's just the Valium.