Tag Archives: writing

The Surprises Keep on Coming….

Posted on by

10

I mentioned in one of last week’s posts that I submitted two pieces for BlogHer’s Voices of the Year and explained why. I submitted them knowing full well that I had no plans of attending the conference this year (or desire to); as I explained in that post, I was submitting them just because I felt like taking a leap forward and opening myself up to opportunity, really.

On the same day I submitted those pieces, I found a surprise greeting me in my inbox at the end of the day-an unexpected opportunity. It was an email from Shannon (@mrlady), BlogHer’s conference programming manager, and I couldn’t peel my eyes off of the subject line:

photo-3

When I was finally able to read the rest of the email, I put the phone down and immediately started pacing back and forth in my living room, my mind flooded with thoughts….

Me? 

Whoa. 

What?

ME?

I’m small potatoes…how’d I get on the radar for something like this? What about [insert name here] or [insert name here]? THEY should be the ones doing this….

How will I get there? 

I’m not a speaker….

What will I say?

I’m not worthy of this…there are SO many others who I know deserve this and are better advocates and have bigger platforms than me. 

What will Bertski say? 

Of course when I called him, he left no room for doubt-I was going to accept the invite and we would use this opportunity to take the boys on a family vacation. He’s so damn supportive, especially when he knows I’ll talk myself out of something great like this.

I hung up, emailed Shannon back, and yesterday I officially accepted my speaker’s invitation to BlogHer’s HealthMinder Day. I’m being afforded the chance to do what I do here on the blog-talk about mental health and what it’s like to share my experiences with it with all of you-the rewarding, the hard, the reasons why I continue to do it, etc.

I’m excited. I’m humbled. I’m honored. I’m scared shitless. I’ve never spoken to a room full of strangers on this level, EVER. I don’t feel worthy, especially when I consider what amazing writers and bloggers my co-panelists are, AND when I think of the other amazing writers and women who blog about mental health and deserve an opportunity to share in a forum such as this.

I don’t feel worthy of it, but I know that it’s the right opportunity for me to say yes to-does that make sense? It feels authentic to the kind of writer I am, and what this space is…I don’t feel worthy of it, but at the same time I realize that playing small when opportunities such as these present themselves to you serves no one, least of all yourself, so I’m choosing to be grateful and enjoy every part of this. Besides, when I asked Kelly (@mochamomma) if she had any advice and told her how nervous I was, she had this to say: “Remember why you write. Speak your truth. Drop the fucking mic.” Pretty much the kick in the ass I needed to step into the moment and accept the gig. Yep.

Do I hope to gain anything out of this? Sure-I hope to gain connection-connection with others in a healthy, constructive and empathetic dialogue about sharing our experiences with mental illness and wellness. I want to encourage others to share their mental health related stories and I want to also be encouraged to keep doing the same-Lord knows I’ve almost nuked this space at least once a week since the new year began.

So….I’m going to BlogHer this year! As a speaker for HealthMinder day! I’ll be here-Will I see you there? I hope so-go register and then let me know you’re coming so we can meet up :)

Also, moral of this story: Always leave a little room for opportunity-you never know what it has waiting for you.

Also, also: Marriage. Baby. Speaking gig. 2013 better stop blowing my mind with all of these surprises.

Let's talk about mental health in the online space, shall we?

Let’s talk about mental health in the online space, shall we?

HEY YOU: Don’t Drink the VOTY Kool-Aid

Posted on by

16

I gots some thangs to say…..forgive me if this just kinda tumbles out, I’m not in the mood to filter much today. Here we go:

Yesterday I listened to a heart whisper and submitted two pieces for BlogHer’s 2013 Voices of the Year, one visual, one written.

I submitted them because one of my words for this year is “pursue,” and when it comes to my writing and art, my intention this year is to pursue opportunities for them to be showcased. Why? Why the hell not? I write and paint for myself first and foremost and will always do so even if I have zero readers and the world thinks my art is a travesty, BUT I’m also a storyteller who believes in the power of sharing your experiences with others. Writing and painting save me from the parts of myself that thanks to illness are hell-bent on destroying me-and so does sharing about my life through the written word and visual art. Sharing my stories here and through paint are my way of giving back-I hope that at some point, what I share and convey in what I create helps someone on some level, in some area of life be it motherhood, mental illness, abuse, or just life in general.

I also submitted because hey, who doesn’t like to connect with others and be heard? And who says it’s wrong to be proud of what you’ve created? What’s wrong with just going for it, JUST BECAUSE you never know what will become of it? YOLO! Am I right?

I said all of that to say that I didn’t submit my pieces because I think other people will find them moving and valuable, worthy of attention. I shared them because I FIND THEM VALUABLE, MOVING, AND WORTHY. Maybe if my piece on being bipolar and a mother is selected, maybe another mom who was just diagnosed will find it and find some comfort-or find a way to contact me so she can find someone to talk to or ask questions. Maybe if my piece is selected people will stop believing people with an illness like bipolar disorder are incapable of being quality parents and raising healthy kids. But if I had decided to NOT submit that piece, then the chances of that happening are significantly reduced considering how “small” I am in the blogosphere. So I saw an opportunity to be an advocate, be a storyteller, honor MYSELF for owning my story, and took advantage of it-Like Nike, I just did it. Insecure, vulnerable, and all, dammit I sat my ass down, read through my stuff and submitted.

Maybe for you, it’s not about any of this. Maybe you just want your work to be heard, be seen, be validated, be recognized. Maybe you wrote some funny shit and you want others to recognize you’re the next Richard Pryor or Sarah Silverman. That’s OK. It really is. Go ahead-submit! Honor your work. Pat yourself on the back, man. Be proud.

For those of you who are discouraged by this whole VOTY thing, hear me: STOP WAITING FOR OTHERS TO VALIDATE YOU AND YOUR WORK AND VALIDATE YOURSELF. STOP DRINKING THE DAMN VOTY KOOL-AID. I’m watching so many of you flog yourselves and doubt your self-worth and value as a blogger, writer, and fucking human being because no one is nominating your work. I get why it’s a downer, and trust me, I think the voting aspect of the process is asinine and I know that’s what’s discouraging so many of you from submitting. But I learned a couple of years ago that sometimes you can’t wait for others to celebrate and honor you, you’ve got to do it yourself, fuck everyone else. THROW YOUR OWN DAMN PARTY. Stop waiting for an invite. NO ONE will take pride in you or what you’re putting out there if you don’t.

96 of the pieces that will be selected as VOTY will be selected by the committee-guess what? They are reading each and every piece submitted whether it has 500 votes or 0. So even if you’re small potatoes like myself, your work will still be seen. Shouldn’t that matter more than some damn votes? Even if your piece isn’t selected, you never know who will become a fan of your work just because they were on the committee and read your piece. You don’t know what kind of opportunities could come out of this. And even if nothing comes out of it, shit, pour a drink and cheer yourself for having the balls to do something so many people wouldn’t.

I know when you’re a small fry in the blog/writing arena it’s easy to get intimidated and feel left out because those with bigger platforms are being nominated, called out, read, and recognized-and recognizing their own peers. But hear me: SMALL DOES NOT EQUAL INSIGNIFICANT  and is in no way an indication of the value and worth of your work and your story.

So STOP DRINKING THE VOTY KOOL-AID. Submit something if it’s on your heart to do so. (Heart whispers are meant to be listened to-unless it’s telling you to go kill someone. If that’s the case, get a new fucking heart ASAP.) Go find a favorite piece from someone you read and submit it to honor them-if they’re a fellow small fry, I can guarantee you it will make their day and probably encourage them to keep writing, sharing, owning their story.

So. What are you still doing here reading this? GO. Bye!

My Life Isn’t Always So Heavy. Sometimes It’s Full of Near Marriages & Tear Gas Too.

Posted on by

5

Today I’m supposed to be telling you about the time I nearly died during a military exercise in the Nevada desert.

Me+5 cans of tear gas+gas mask fail=the fires of brimstone & damnation taking up residence in my body.

It’s a good story, but before I share it with you, I have to explain why I am.

I told my friend Susan about it and she almost died from laughter. Death by laughter is a much better way to go than death by tear gas, in case you were wondering.

Anyway she didn’t really almost die laughing (duh, it’s called exaggeration) but she did have tears in her eyes, and after she composed herself she reminded me of something-I don’t talk about the other parts of my life here very often, if at all.

I’ve spent the majority of this blog’s life telling you about my struggles with mental illness, motherhood, & low self-esteem. I’ve touched a little on social issues & religion too, but the only “light” thing I’ve shared here are my Napoleon Dynamite-esque dance skills. (New here? Check the “Dance” tab up top)

I realized there’s so much about myself and my life that I haven’t shared with you, especially the parts that aren’t so heavy. Example: I used to show dogs (think Westminster type dog shows) when I was 8 years old. Also? I was pretty damn good at it too. See? I haven’t divulged that kind of info and I feel like it would be nice to do so.

So moving forward, I’m going to try and be more open not just about the heaviness of in my life, but the lighter, funnier, interesting experiences I’ve had as well. The stupid mistakes I’ve made,(like dating a guy I met on a greyhound bus on its way to Jacksonville, Florida…after almost marrying this OTHER guy I had moved to Florida for…all while I was 7 months pregnant. Yea. that.) stories from my Air Force days (like the time the government thought it was ok to let me be qualified to use seven different deadly weapons) and other random stuff from my “pre mom, pre mental illness takeover” days. Maybe I’ll even throw in some high school stuff so you can see how giant of a dork I was. (And still am)

I don’t share enough about the other parts of my life or the experiences I’ve had outside of being a mom & a manic depressive, and I’d like to thank Susan for pointing this out to me. You should thank her too because some of these stories will be TMZ-worthy. I can hear your inner gossip hound licking its chops in anticipation.

First up will be the tear gas story. I’ll try to have it up by tomorrow or over the weekend at the latest. I have to talk to some of the people who were there with me to refresh my memory on some of the details. (Inhaling tear gas causes black outs & mild amnesia)

Get ready to (hopefully) laugh your ass off at my expense. There WILL be talk about loss of bodily functions & the expelling of bodily fluids. You’ve been warned.

Every Story Deserves to Be Told So I’m Telling Mine

Posted on by

2

Participant-180x180-2

“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.” (Maya Angelou)  ‎”I have learned now that while those who speak about one’s miseries usually hurt, those who keep silence hurt more.” – C.S. Lewis Stories. Life experiences. … Continue reading →

Covered in Shit & Earth

Posted on by

25

*WARNING: I can’t guarantee that this will make sense or be a solid piece of writing. They are just thoughts, tumbling out one right after the other.*

************************

Tears envelop my eyes and distort my vision as I sit here trying to type this.

I don’t want to engage in a wrestling match between words & my emotions, trying to bring the two together like matching puzzle pieces, giving them life & voice so you can understand my current state of mind.

I’m tired of thinking, of trying to process all that I’ve read, heard, and seen online and in conversations with people. I’m overwhelmed with trying to grasp and retain it all.

When I was 13, we lived in a 2 acre plot of land in a small town 45 minutes outside of San Antonio. Our neighbors on the left, the Clarks, housed chickens on the back end of their property. Our neighbor on the right, Mr. Lopez, housed goats, chickens, and a calf named Bandit. We had three Rottweilers ourselves, and I spent several occasions hopping over the fence into Bandit’s pen, trying to get them back into our own property.

It was exhausting. The pen was full of mud & cow manure, both mixing together into one slippery surface. Chasing after my dogs and trying to grab ahold of them was next to impossible…and messy. Running, jumping, and wrestling them to the fence meant being on my hands and knees, reaching through the mud & manure to grasp their slick legs and midsections. I’d often give up and just sit in the middle of the pen, silently hoping they’d tire themselves out soon & make my task easier to accomplish.

I’d just sit there and watch them run in circles around the pen, terrorizing Bandit & the rest of the animals and feel helpless & frustrated at my inability to make them stop. I’d sit there, covered in shit and earth from head to toe, feeling defeated.

That’s how I feel this morning. Like I’m back out in that pen, covered from head to toe in shit & earth, tired from wrestling & wrangling, wanting nothing more than to close my eyes and pretend I’m in another place, and not spitting cow shit out of my mouth.

Only today, it’s not cow shit & I’m not on a 2 acre plot of land in Texas with 3 rowdy dogs and barn animals. I’m in my apartment trying to play with my two boys while blinking back tears & quieting a mind reeling from news headlines.

The Wisconsin Sikh shooting yesterday….The shooting spree in Colorado just a couple of weeks ago….gun control, the Second Amendment, the NRA…mental health…hate crimes…violence…

Chic Fil A, marriage equality, gay rights, freedom of speech, Christianity, Homosexuality, religious freedom, dogma, intolerance…boycotts, kiss-ins, appreciation days…

Trayvon Martin, racism, race, “looking suspicious”, injustice, politics….

HATE. From acts of violence to comments on media sites & Facebook all I see is hate.

And ignorance. So much ignorance.

And a faith being misrepresented by those who have forgotten what Jesus would’ve actually done. So called “Christians” who care more about being “right” than people.

Intolerance and polarization. Everywhere I look, I see lines in the sand and giant gaps in the middle where only a minority dare to reside.

My mind has spun tirelessly in an effort to take it all in, process it, draw conclusions, and give a voice to how it all makes me feel. I’ve spent the summer wrestling & wrangling in the shit & earth that these issues present, trying grasp ahold of my own thoughts on each and find my footing on a shifting worldview, slipping, sliding, and losing a grip that was once firm & sure of what it was holding on to & why.

My mind is back in that pen, and I find myself sitting there covered from head to toe in the messiness & ugliness of humanity, wanting nothing more than to close my eyes, and pretend I don’t see it, and that my heart is not breaking within me from the pain of it.

During a session called “Blogging the Fine Line Between Your Identity & the Issues,” at BlogHer this weekend, I felt challenged by the panelists to not look away from the ugliness. To find a way to speak to it and give it a voice.

In the past I’ve been hesitant to talk about things like race, religion & politics here on the blog. I’ve wanted to share my thoughts, questions, and perspective on various cultural issues that are difficult to talk about but wasn’t sure how or if I should. I’ve been comfortable with being transparent about my struggles but not with my thoughts & feelings on issues I feel strongly or have questions about. But then I attended this session. Heard Kelly Wickham (@mochamomma) say to “work past your own tension & discomfort,” when wanting to write about “the issues.” When I asked her “how?” she simply extended her foot on the ground and said, “like this-just step out & step up to it, a little at a time if you have to but just get out there. Don’t be afraid to take that step.”

So…this is me. Taking that step and refusing to just navel gaze and vowing to be more open with you about how I’m feeling & what I’m questioning in regards to “the issues.”

This is me saying that I’m going to let you watch me wrestle and wrangle my way through them….and ask you to wrestle & wrangle with me, share your insights & questions so we can be challenged to learn & grow together.

And? This is me, covered in the shit of all the hate, violence, and ignorance of the past weeks & saying it has left my soul weary and my heart broken. It has left me scrambling to find a way to raise my boys in a still racially divided society & infuriated with the Christian Church here in America. I’ve found myself in the middle of so many opposing sides wanting my cries for compassion to override the hate and ignorance being screamed back & forth, and just being overwhelmed by it all….

How have you been dealing with all of this? Do you feel defeated & overwhelmed too? Are you wrestling with anything as a result of all that’s been happening lately?

Things I’m Afraid to Tell You

Posted on by

19

afraidtotell_chalkboard_full

I was invited to write this post by a group of bloggers who are participating in a series of posts called “Things I’m Afraid to Tell You”. The TIATTY movement was inspired by a post from Jess Constable of Make … Continue reading →

I Couldn’t Write But Was Feeling Restless So Instead I Painted

Posted on by

9

My laptop crapped out on me today. I was planning on spending 45-50 minutes journaling and writing some posts, but when the screen on my craptop went black for the fifth time, I gave up on that idea and wondered what to do with all the restless creative energy I was feeling.

The last couple of days I’ve been feeling restless, wanting to get lost in being creative. Colors are dancing before my eyes-I envision their placement on giant stretches of canvas when I sleep at night. My mind is busy writing my life experiences into chapters for my memoir (more on that later), and it seems even the simple and smallest details of my daily life are the perfect fodder for blog posts. ( Don’t worry, I’ll spare you from having to read 95% of them. That’s what the draft folder is for.) When I hear music, my body wants to get lost in movement, and my desire to take a dance class reminds me to put it on the “Things I must do once we’re settled in Austin,” list. (Again-more on this later)

Paint. Write. Dance. I’m craving creativity & expression in these areas. While I’m putting concentrating on dance until after we move, I plan on directing my creative energy into writing and painting this summer…. I want to spend at least 30-60 minutes a day exercising my creative muscle….I’m intrigued and excited to see what I come up with, especially as I continue to explore the world of paint, which is a new one for me. (And yet again, more on this later. I owe you at least 3 posts-remind me)

That’s why when my laptop gave up, I figured the next best thing to do was grab a piece of canvas, my brushes & paints, settle into a corner of the living room and just…paint. I did this last night as well.

20120529-173231.jpg

The pieces I did last night and this afternoon kind of caught me off guard. I did some experimenting with thinning out my buttery acrylics with water, and here’s what emerged…

This one describes how my thoughts and thought processes are when I’m hypomanic. Everything is colorful, vibrant, I feel alive, full of energy…some of it is anxious, agitated, restless energy, some of it is productive and punctuated with lots of laughter & creative projects that range from painting to cooking. Things are fantastical, special…My thoughts run & bleed into each other blending reality with the fantasies my mind conjures up. This of course makes my concentration and focus blurry at times. I haven’t settled on a name for this one yet, but it will probably be “Manic Thoughts” or something along those lines.

20120529-173453.jpg

This one is called “Distortion” or “A Distorted Perception of Self,” I haven’t decided yet which sounds better. It started off colorful and very bold, but halfway through turned into a mishmash of colors than blended together to create a muted look in terms of color. I spent about 10 minutes just throwing water at it, watching the paint leave trails on the canvas. It’s ugly, it’s messy, distorted, and a little chaotic…but to me, it’s how I see myself sometimes through the dirty lens of mental illness.

20120529-174857.jpg

So, I didn’t get to write today like I wanted but I guess it’s just as well. I did something I enjoyed, and that has me feeling pretty grounded….even though hypomania is trying to lift my feet off the ground. I’m trying to stay level. We’ll see how it goes.

Hindsight is 20/20….Cathartic…and Painful

Posted on by

0

I’ve been finishing up my 50,000 word count for NaNoWriMo this weekend. I’m about 4,000 words shy of this goal and this process has been…..cathartic….revealing, even. I thought when I did this, 50,000 words & 175 pages would be enough to contain “my story.” However, it seems the more I go back and remember, the more I reflect, the more words that I type, just when I think I have nothing left to say…..more comes to the surface, overflowing and spilling onto the screen in front of me and even down my cheeks….

Because I’ve been thinking  a lot about my life over the past 10 years while writing, I found myself digging through my storage bins and poring over the stacks of journals I’ve kept since I was 19.

While reading through one of them, I came across an entry I wrote when Brennan was about 4 months old. Tears, a steady stream of them came winding down my face as I read the words of a new mother who was struggling to take care of an infant all on her own. Then came the memories….flashbacks of crying, screaming, anger, intense pain….I remembered the first 6 months of Brennan’s life like they were yesterday, and knowing what I know about PPD and PPA now, I reflect on these memories and see myself, at 24, being consumed by these disorders and not even recognizing it.

In April of this year, when I finally sought and found treatment for my PPD & PPA after Alex’s 1st birthday, I remember the therapist asking me if I suffered with PPD after having Brennan.

“Honestly? I don’t remember…I…I’m not sure. I..I know I was sad and angry and some other things, but honestly I was just too consumed with trying to survive to even think about if I was depressed. I mean, it was just me. I was newly separated from the military and his father wasn’t doing anything to help me. I didn’t have a job. My unemployment was hardly meeting my expenses, and I was living with friends. If I ever considered myself depressed, I just attributed it to all of that and being a new mother. Everyone told me being a single parent was going to be tough…I…I just assumed feeling the way I felt was just part of the package.”

Looking back, knowing what I know now, having been educated to the signs, risk factors, and various symptoms of PPD & PPA, and reading these words, I see it. I see me struggling through them while trying to raise my first born. And that pains me. It tears me up because not knowing what to look for, not having someone there to push me to get help put me in some very dark places those first 2 years.  The dark places I found myself wandering in during my pregnancy and after Alex’s birth would have made much more sense had I been able to recognize them 3 years prior.

Reading the entries in that journal was painful as were the memories that found there way back to the forefront of my mind. (sigh) But….at least I know now, right?

Here’s one of the entries I found:

There it is again

a malicious intent to harm

that’s come and gone before

I’m able to acknowledge it’s existence;

the only evidence of its surfacing,

a tiny, fragmented piece of your innocence

that’s fallen to the floor

along with expectations I’ve fallen short of.

NO.

this wasn’t supposed to happen.

Where are the loving thoughts?

What happened to the sunshine?

When did it get so dark in here?

Who put out the warmth,

Who rewrote this fairytale,

because this isn’t the ending I expected.

The novelty…..

Its worn off….how can that be?

Its origin is a mystery to me….

You’re supposed to be everything I wanted.

We’re supposed to be happy.

But now you’re crying,

and I’m trying to escape the guilt that’s

chasing after me.

I’m so sorry.

I never meant for this to happen.

But how do I tell you that?

How do I show you that I really do love you,

my sanity just caved under the pressure

and I slipped before I could catch myself.

Maybe I can find redemption somewhere in

your eyes….

perhaps you’ll forget this mistake.

(sigh)

I pray to God you will.

Father,

Forgive me…for I know not what I do.

NaNoWriMo, Life Lists, & Coffee Beans

Posted on by

2

Man things have been CRAZY ’round here the past month, especially the last 2 weeks. Alot of it I’ve written about but haven’t published because…well, considering where I’ve been mentally the past few weeks, let’s just say alot of what I wrote was dark, angry, painful…hopeless…and even though I’m all about transparency, it’s not always easy to hit the “publish” button. Suffice it to say that I’m not ready to share those posts yet….and when I am, I still might make them password protected so only certain folk can see them…

Other things I haven’t written about but will in another post hopefully later this week/weekend. A few things have changed for me in terms of school, I’ve had some breakthroughs in therapy, I’ve had some crazy racial incidents occur which have me at odds with Bucks County, PA, and some other good stuff has happened…but like I said I’ll get to that in other post.

My last post dealt with a story about Carrots, Eggs, & Coffee Beans. At the end of it I mentioned that I am trying, with all of my might, to be a coffee bean and change the property of the hot water I’m in, break out of the mold, so to speak.

When I went to therapy two Saturdays ago, I spent most of it like I had the previous ones: bawling my eyes out and lamenting the fact that I feel robbed of  a normal, healthy life & existence. I had been telling my therapist how painful it is to realize that my illness (Bipolar Disorder) was brought about (for the most part) through no fault of my own. From what I’ve been learning through reading and just reflecting about my life & my family, genetics, environment, and exposure created the DNA for this disorder to exist and manifest in my life. Looking back I can see that while I may have started struggling severely with depression and anxiety as a teen, I’ve at least had anxiety since I was a child…probably between Alex & Brennan’s age. Generalized anxiety? Intrusive thoughts? Panic attacks? PTSD? Living in fear? Chronic worrying?  Abuse, neglect, and other circumstances were the the breeding grounds for all of those and the set the stage for what I’m living and struggling my way through now. And it hurts. It angers me. It makes me angry with my parents, with my family, it makes me isolate myself from them even more than I already have. Their inability to own the parts they played in creating this mess of my life both infuriates and saddens me. The parts I played in creating this mess of my life infuriates and saddens me as well….but at least I can acknowledge that I’m also to blame for some of this-they cannot and probably never will. And that hurts me ya’ll. Not as much as it did when I first started to realize it a few weeks ago, but it’s still there like a dull ache.

And so two Saturdays ago, I was hysterically babbling  explaining this to my therapist, and asking her what the hell I was supposed to do with this…this…pain, this anger, this resentment, this…STUFF that had erupted like Mt. St Helens within me. “IT’S NOT FAIR! IT’S NOT FAIR FOR ME TO BE THE ONLY ONE LEFT TRYING TO PUT ALL THESE PIECES TOGETHER!’ I screamed at asked her. “I WAS JUST A CHILD! WHY DOESN’T ANYONE GET THAT? WHY DO THEY ACT LIKE IT’S ALL MY FAULT THAT I’M LIKE THIS?! F—!” After a few years moments of silence she looked me dead in the eye and said, “This is not your fault. You need to know that. No matter what mistakes you’ve made as an adult that may have contributed to this, understand that this is not your fault. You couldn’t control this. And the ones who could have at least tried their best to prevent it didn’t. They failed you as parents. As family members. They didn’t protect you, they didn’t get you the help you needed. They subjected to you years of abuse and even sexual abuse. They can’t own it because that would mean they would have to acknowledge what they’ve done and they can’t. So they leave you to deal with it and deflect it all on you.”

“Ok…I get that. I could try to wrap my mind around that and accept it. But what do I do? Why is this so hard? Why is it so damn hard for me to just SURVIVE, let alone LIVE? Why do I feel like I’ve been fighting my whole life just to claw out some meager existence? This is insane! Who would want to live with this? Seriously? I’m going on autopilot because anything else is just too damn hard…I’m tired.”

What she said next hit me like an artillery round to the temple: ” A’Driane….it’s hard because you’re doing something that no one in your family has made strides to do. First of all, you’re seeking help. REAL help for what you’re facing. You’re not hiding behind faith, you’re not hoping that prayer makes it all better, you’re getting professional help. You’re accepting a part of you and doing everything you can to not let it destroy you or make you “check out” on life. You’re breaking patterns, you’re refusing to recycle the garbage that’s been dumped on you…Mental illness runs in your family on both sides and you’re the first one to really seek help and medication and treatment…. and guess what? Breaking out of something like this, of anything really, is hard, hard work. It’s like breaking ground for a new building-you have to break up and overturn what’s there so you can lay down a foundation to build upon. That’s what you’re doing. You’re breaking out and you’re breaking ground-so you and your boys can have a better life. So your boys will have a better chance of fighting this than you did. You’re different. Doing something different is always a struggle. But you have to keep going, because as much as it hurts, and as lonely as it is, the reward is going to far outweigh the cost. Promise me you’re going to hang in there and keep fighting….”

And this ladies and gentlemen is the exact moment when I knew I had found the right person to work through this stuff with. She got “it,” she got me….She understood…and she reminded me of something I had forgotten. Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve always said to myself, to God, I’ll do things differently. I won’t do what was done to me, I won’t repeat what I had to go through. When I was pregnant with Brennan, I reiterated that promise, telling God I’d keep Brennan if He would just help me not recycle the garbage, if He would help me break the generational patterns from BOTH sides of my family. Until two Saturdays ago, I didn’t fully understand what that promise meant. Now I do.

It means I’m a coffee bean. I’ve been in hot, boiling water my whole life, surrounded by circumstances and situations that were less than ideal and bred a lot of pain and dysfunction in my life and the lives of those around me. I could be a carrot and get soft, weak, mushy…or I could be an egg and let what I’ve been through harden me…I’ve seen examples of both of these in my family and in people I’ve met. But I’ve also met coffee beans-people who take what they’ve been through and allow it to change them in a way that changes the environment around them, breaking out and creating something new, something that smells amazing, something that can be useful. And I’m one of them. I understand so much more now that I really understand that I am a coffee bean.

So, with that knowledge I’m tackling the first item on my Life List: Write Book #1. I’m writing about my childhood, my mental and sexual abuse, how that has impacted me, and set the stage for now having to live a life with a beast of a disorder. I’m writing about my experience living with Generalized anxiety and how it led to my experience with Postpartum Anxiety & depression as well. I”m writing about how I’m trying to balance faith, motherhood, & mental illness. Why? Because I want to destroy the stigmas surrounding mental illness in the Christian & African American cultures. I want my voice, my story to be out there so someone else can know that they aren’t crazy and that they aren’t alone. I don’t care about money or anything like that-I care about helping people. I care about removing shame & empathizing with others. So I’m writing my first book.

I signed up for NaNoWriMo’s 30 day writing challenge and will be spending the entire month writing. The goal is 50,000 words, 175 pages of unedited, raw content. I’m not writing a fiction piece so I probably won’t submit it (I’m considered a Nano Rebel) but I’m still using this challenge as a guideline to get the bulk of my story (or at least a huge chunk of it) out.  Not sure what I’m going to do with it once it’s written in terms of structure or publication, but I’ll cross those bridges when I come to them in December. For now, for November, the goal is to just write it out….write out everything that’s coming to the surface as a result of (finally) being medicated and in therapy.

I started tonight, and got my first 5 pages and 1100 words done….even had one of those clarifying Oprah “aha!’ moments while writing them out….

Here’s to the next 170.

Out Visiting!

Posted on by

0

Happy Friday! WOOOOHOOOOO! *cue the “Hallelujah Chorus” *

We made it through the week! Was it just me or was this one a little rougher than usual, especially yesterday? If you’re on the east coast, maybe it was because of all the wet, gray weather we had. Well, the good news is we weathered the the storms and the weekend is here to give us a reprieve…..and I’m starting mine in the blogosphere by visiting a friend :)

Today I’m over at Learned Happiness, where my fellow writer and mama Susan owns her story in honest, eloquent posts. On Monday she stopped by & shared her thoughts on  ”Perseverance” , the inspiration stemming from a photo she snapped while out enjoying date night with her hubby.

Today I’m sharing my own thoughts on the very same photo, and I’d LOVE for you to check it out as well as the rest of Susan’s blog. I promise it’s well worth the visit, I think you’ll find her presence and writing as warm and inviting as I do.

Enjoy your Friday!