Been awhile since I've posted

I have had so much going on lately! I gave my first college presentation since 2003. Man, I sure was nervous. It was in a 400 level class and I've really been struggling with the material in it. I worked for over eight hours on the powerpoint and material. I was given a 27 page social experiment from a pysch journal that I had to present and answer a bunch of scholarly questions about. Normally, I am good at this type of thing but I psyched myself out so bad. I doubted my abilities left and right, about had a panic attack. Got to class and of course he did it alphabetically by last name so I had to go first!! I was very nervous. BUT I got a 100% on it! All 50 points! (The class is only 400 points so Ill take it!)I had written out the questions on the slides and the answers to each so that I wouldn't forget anything. He said I was his first and only 100% in five years. He wrote on my evaluation that I was "organized, professional and well spoken" how about that? He also told the rest of the class they had big shoes to follow. I was shocked! Guess I am not as dumb as I thought. I also took the math placement test, sure I was going to fail it. I am horrible at math. I can do day to day math pretty well, calculate percentages etc, but academic math not so much. I was worried because testing into below a 100 level college math class would mean TWO semesters of math. But, again, I doubted my ability and tested into college stats. I scored really high on the college algebra section! I was quite shocked. Also, met with my academic counselor and found out next December I graduate. I will have two bachelor degrees then and of course my original associates. I am very excited about it!

Next week is midterms- I have five! EEEK! I am stressing over them. Mainly because I have horrible test anxiety. My first time around in school I ended getting to take my tests proctored verbally because I was failing the written ones, I really doubt myself. Say the answer is A, and I know the answer is A, I will talk myself out of A and choose C. I have to really try hard not to do that next week.

I met with my counselor for the third time this week. I really like her. We are working on coping and communication techniques, addressing my PTSD and she put in a referral to meet with a psychiatrist. We both are considering a temporary medication right now, she said its not ok to be as depressed and anxious as I have been. Neither of us think I need a long term medication but rather a short term helper while we figure everything out.

I also did a family photo shoot for a friend. I think I got some ok photos for them, she seemed to really like them.

I have still be writing my column for the newspaper.

I have also been taking my camera a lot more places. I really love photography. Let me rephrase, I really love taking pictures of things I find beauty in and then sharing that beauty with other people. I tend to be a nature photographer. I really enjoy nature and our surroundings. Here are a few of my recent photos. I am thinking about perhaps selling some of them on greeting cards and prints for houses. I keep getting asked for them, I just dont think I am professional enough to really do it, but it might make for a fun hobby.


Click on the images to see them blown up :)

Revise, rewrite, rewind.

When I blog I am writing my emotions and heart. I was asked why I don’t blog more- is it because I don’t have anything to say or because I am afraid people won’t like what I have to say?

I will be honest some days it is the latter.

When I blog I write, fast and furious. When I am done writing I post it. I don’t reread, revise or edit it. After it has been posted for a few days I may go back and correct some glaring spelling or grammar mistakes. But, if I were to do that when I write it I would edit everything out. I want my blogs to be honest and raw. I second-guess myself a lot and I don’t want rereading in the heat of emotion to change my words.

Yes, some people think I should write, wait a few days, and then post. I have been doing that some and guess what? None of those blogs get posted! I am afraid of judgment. So, for me, its best to write, post and then reread later.

So, if you see a lot of errors know that is why. I didn’t proof read.

Raised Up

I am a writer. I have been writing as long as I can remember. Books, as previously discussed, saved my life. It was reading and escaping into stories that kept me going as a child. Stories of the orphan train, which later inspired me to try out for the lead in the play, which I was offered and indeed played out, stories about the boxcar children and other orphans, that made me laugh and made me cry. I began writing and remember winning an elementary school short story contest in first grade. I actually got in trouble in fifth grade for writing. Some kids talked too much in class (ok I was guilty of that as well), some passed notes, but I wrote too much. Instead of doing my math problems or science I was writing stories. Short, long, journaling, and poetry. My notebooks were filled to the brim with writing.

I love writing. It is a great outlet for when you have had bad days. It is a way to concrete memories into the cement of history. Writing for thousands of years has been the one preservation of human kind. Writing on caves, on scrolls, in books and now the electronic age. The written word has progressed far and wide, but it has never been silenced. Journals, like that of Anne Franks, have outlived the person, although her spirit through her words, as long as read, will never die.

Perhaps the reason I like to write is because at the end of the day it is something that is mine, something that cannot be taken away from me. Some people say that I am an ok writer. I think my writing ability came from my love of reading.

A professor of mine told me that I must have been raised right recently in class. I didn’t correct him. How do I explain that I raised myself? My first several foster homes were at best negligent at worst abusive. Then a group home. Then a home where I was an indentured servant raising other peoples children.

I began to think about things. Who did raise me? Where did my values come from? Some from the variety of churches and religious organizations I belonged to. But more, I believe from the books I read.

No one understands why I call the moose at the zoo Morris or why I ask him if he wants gumdrops. All too often I recall the books of my childhood when others have long since forgotten them.

I read books that had value to them. Meaning. Morals. The stories I read didn’t depict orphans doing drugs, killing, raping or committing crimes. They were stories about the heart and soul, about family, about overcoming obstacles. Henry, Jessie, Violet, and Benny, from the “Boxcar Children” kept me company while they lived in a boxcar in the forest. The stories gave me hope when the children are rescued by their loving grandfather who gives them a good home. The family values that are taught in “the Little House on the Prairie”, teaching hard work and good old fun. Anne Frank had an unbreakable spirit during a broken time of terror.

Growing up with Margret in “Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret.” It was my first taste of the brilliance that is Judy Blume, but far from my last. “A Wrinkle In Time” saved me from a screaming foster mother as I buried my head under the blankets and read myself into foreign lands and adventure. An escape from my life as I longed to be Meg. The beauty of “The Secret Garden” inspired me to read it time and time again.

I never quite understood why I loved my copy of “Where the Sidewalk Ends” that I bought for a dime at a garage sale when I was eight. But it was one of the most worn books in my collection. My Amelia Bedelia collection made me giggle on the way to visit my parents in prison. My love for animals inspired me to read “The Incredible Journey” before the movie was made. I learned about civil rights movements and the holocaust is books like “The Devils Arithmetic”, “Number of the Stars”, “Roll of Thunder Hear My Cry”, and “To Kill a Mockingbird.”

I remember reading “The Giver” by Lois Lowry in one night. As a child I had finished the entire Babysitters Club series. I read “The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy”, “Catherine, Called Birdy”, “The Things They Carried”, “The Golden Compass”, before I ever started Junior High. My junior high years were filled with the classics thanks to a teacher who guided me in the right direction. “Little Women”, “Pride and Prejudice”, “Jane Eyre”, “Through the Looking Glass”, “Great Expectations”, “The Scarlet Letter”, “The Call of the Wild”, “Black Beauty” the list goes on and on. I read every single one of Shakespeare’s collections. Then I started on poets.

I checked out twenty-five books for the road trip from Illinois to Florida one summer, I was about twelve. I read them all before we arrived in Florida, and all were teen or adult books. I read seven of the “Left Behind” series in three days Christmas of 2000.

Reading was my salvation. All the Friday nights I was home alone, I had company in my books. When I was being screamed at from behind the door, or shaking wondering when I would get to eat again, when I was fighting to not cry myself to sleep, I would reach for a book to comfort me.

I learned about life from the books I read. How to treat other people with kindness, love and compassion. How to forgive. I learned that families are important when I didn’t have a family. I learned about love when there was no love in my life. I learned about people who had struggled and became larger than life. I learned about hope, lighting dark times and victory when none was in sight. I learned how important words are.

Right now the words in books have once again become my friends, my hope, and my escape from the daily pain and depression I am feeling. I hate my life but I don't hate theirs. So I am back to escaping into books. Once again books are what has become my savior.

Maybe, maybe I like to write because someday I hope my words can touch someone the way the authors of my childhood touched me.

And when I go to bed tonight I will snuggle with my very own twenty plus year old version of “The Velveteen Rabbit.”

Just another day.

I haven’t blogged in awhile because I’ve been “off” lately. Something is definitely not right, physically. I’ve been having a lot of circulation problems, pure exhaustion and eyesight issues, dizziness, off balance etc. Just yesterday I fell twice, cut four of my fingers while cooking, and both my feet were asleep for a large part of the day. I need to make an appointment with the doc.

My fertility appointment was this week and it was a giant let down to me. Mainly because, without even reviewing my records he goes straight to pressing for IVF. Except, unlike most of the corporations he cant guarantee results. In fact he wants to take a dozen eggs and sperm, pair them, remove a cell at three days (make sure it’s a healthy baby and it’s a boy), and insert them one at a time back inside of me and if I miscarry do this four more times. It would take four times to say that it was actually my body rejecting and not the baby. Of course, he is the head of a fertility clinic that mainly does IVF, of course insurance doesn’t pay for any of this, and of course he doesn’t even think it will work but thinks it will give us an answer. That is if I miscarry four times we could then try a surrogate. But, I would have to go through that process up to four times, lose a dozen or more eggs, make a tray full of embryos to experiment on and pay tens of thousands of dollars that instead could go towards a healthy baby that we adopted. I was disgusted with him. It was immediately lets try IVF. The other IVF specialist we have spoken to have adamantly said I was not a good candidate. I felt like I was talking to a used car salesmen instead of a doctor. He didn’t want to discuss finding an answer, or doing medication, or giving me advice on how to naturally conceive, all he wanted to do was go back to IVF. And he referred to pregnancy as “the process” and the baby as “fetus or conception material” Not once did he say the word baby, pregnancy, etc. Everything was scientific, calculated and so cold. He did an exam and ruled out PCOS and Endo but the exam also allowed him to see if my lining and uterus was shaped well to handle IVF. Seriously, without even bothering to read over my charts or anything he has made the expert decision that the best thing for us is to give him thousands of dollars.

IF we ever do IVF I will not use him. I will use the company a friend used or another doctor, the ones who guarantee a baby. Because they actually want you to be able to have a child at the end, not just give them money. I really was disappointed in him. I will have another appointment with him in a couple weeks with my husband this time, but really if he has the same discussion we just had Im done. He didn’t seem at all interested in finding the problem. He kept saying, “lets think outside the box and look at IVF” for every time I asked a question. I asked a girlfriend who used him if she had the same experience and she said no, he helped them with medication. However, she had less miscarriages and hadn’t tried the medication. We tried it once, in the middle of an already failing pregnancy, not in the beginning when your supposed to. It was such a frustrating appointment. My OB did give me another name of a fertility specialist she really likes. So Im going to get a second appointment if my next one is like this one.

We also found out my husbands sister is pregnant. When we told his dad we were pregnant his response, “Again?!” with this tone… but of course her news was his best birthday present. Yeah, be happy for the couple that the male hadn’t worked for years, is addicted to doing marijuana alllll the time, has admittedly lived off the government and confessed that living off the government got them more money then working did, thus the reason she quit her job. In fairness, we haven’t talked to them in over a year, because of the crappy way they treated us, she couldn’t bother to email or write her brother while he was in a war zone, not even a facebook message, either deployment, but could ask me to try to search for a photo that I took years ago. Heres your brother, life on the line, fighting for his country, and you cant take two seconds of your time to shoot him a damn email, or leave a comment on his page, or send him a note, but you can harass me over a photo? Yes. Family values run strong in that line. She had done nothing but manipulate and use us when we were living physically within a driving distance, so needless to say I wasn’t happy. My sister is also pregnant, again. She also lives off the state. Its an interesting place to be in when your siblings can have babies, who do drugs, live in horrible conditions, live off welfare, medical insurance paid for by my tax money, eat their food by my tax money, and overall aren’t nice people but yet when you try and try you end up in disappointment after disappointment. It really sucks.

In addition I have been having a really really hard time lately. I mean, horrific. My counselor said Im depressed, you think? I hate my life. HATE my life. And I hate living. Every single day. I make sure I don’t hang out with people and when I do its far and few between because I don’t want to bring anyone down. Plus everyone knows I talk too much. Im annoying. Im negative. Im self centered. Blah. It doesn’t matter how hard I try people still find ways to either talk shit about me, spread horrible lies (the recent ones are pretty damn hilarious. If your going to hate me hate me for something I did, or have balls to talk to me to my face. I have NEVER in my life blackmailed anyone/anything and if you think I did you apparently don’t know the FACTS of what really happened. Of course not, it would all be third person now wouldn’t it.) and the feeling of being left out is well… Let us not talk about the classless and immature behavior of making sure people know they weren’t included. It is not even high school at that point, its fucking elementary school. Im having a party and your not invited, nananana. Really? How old are we?! Classy people don’t invite people, or follow up on invitations around others that were not invited. Yeah, never said (a majority) of military spouses are classy did we?

To say I am depressed is an understatement. Thank goodness for school. If it wasn’t for the thirty hours a week I am sitting in a class room learning about crime, politics, and defining people’s behaviors and actions I would seriously be wasting away in my bed. It is that much of a chore to get up and going. I am enjoying the fact that all but one of my classes are discussion based: tons of homework and projects, but discussion led. That gives me some human interaction where I don’t have to try to be social.

The gist of the matter is don’t feel like Im ignoring you. I don’t know how to put it, Im ignoring myself. I would rather not put myself out there to be spit on, stomped upon and discarded. So, don’t take it personally. I barely talk to my husband. One night of socializing drains my energy for weeks. Plus every time I sit there and think about everything that went wrong and how I did this this and this wrong, and how even though I tried to engage x, y, or z into conversation they obviously didn’t want to talk or were bored by me.

Im tired of putting myself out there. Actually truth be told Im just plain tired. Tired of waking up, tired of living, tired of day after day of torture. I am tired. No matter what I do it is never good enough, no matter how I act or what I say its twisted and turned. Im fed up of all of it. I just wish I could throw in the towel, but in life, its not that easy. You cant just write your resignation letter and be done. So, Ill keep getting up in the morning, doing what I do, and go to bed at night until my days are done. Pretty much that’s all I can do. I really really really hate my life.

And yes you can say Im bitching but what am I doing to change it? Give me a fucking break. Ive done everything possible to change it, including counseling, school, work, exercise, putting myself out there, being honest and real with people, changing my views and looking at things in a positive light. Guess what? Doesn’t fucking work, nothing does. So don’t tell me to quit bitching. You are welcome to have my life at anytime. When you realize you do not have a single place on earth you feel physically and emotionally safe, not a single one, when you realize you don’t have a single person who honest to God loves you and wouldn’t quickly move on and replace you, when you know your broken and the physical aspects everyone else enjoys cant happen, when you come to the point where every goal, every plan you had you know can never hit fruition, when the only thing in life that you have ever ever wanted, a family, is denied you, when you realize that you’re a horrible human being unworthy of being loved you just live. One day at a time. Because that’s all you can do.

thoughts

I am writing from my phone, Im in bed and too lazy to go get my laptop. All I can hear right now are voices. Voices some mine some others. They are ringing loud and clear in my head.

"You are so ugly."
"Look how fat you are."
"You will never belong."
"You are incapable of ever being loved."
"I wish I had never met you."
"I wish I had never adopted you."
"She was a waste of time and space."
"Why don't you just kill yourself."
"I wish you had died and Jen had lived."
"You don't matter."
"Why are you still here?"
"Your not invited."
"God your stupid."
"No one wants you here. Go home. Oh they don't want you either."
"What's wrong with you?"
"Can't you do anything right?"

It could go on and on. Some nights all I really want is to spare those people unfortunate enough to be in my life from me. Breaking friendships, relationships just to be alone so they aren't stuck being near me. There are nights where I wish I had never made the promise to never take my own life. Well, there are more of those nights then not. I feel like a living walking freak of nature and laws of the universe. Like I know I shouldn't be alive. Hell I've died before. I feel cursed and I feel unlovable. I just really wish I didn't feel as alone as I do and as different. Socially orphaned, physically incapable of the things others have and do.

When you've been abandoned and abused your left to wonder what's next for me. Why am I still here. Then you find a meaning and its taken away and so is the next and the next you start to stop believing in hopes or dreams, you stop reaching for the future. Because it becomes a waiting game for what trial and pain will be next. The pain and the hits keep coming.

Depression is like an emotional cancer that hits remission over and over.
hell what do I know Im not even sure they'll say Im depressed this time either.

All I know is Im tired of life. I see no hope in the future. No matter how I try it never works out. I try to make things better I make them worse. I don't know why I try anymore. I hate myself, my life and its no surprise everyone else hates me as well. I know I was born being hated. Even my own mother tried killing me, the one person who was supposed to love and protect me couldn't stand the sight of me. Why would anyone else. Its hard when people convince themselves of it, until they wake up one day and recognize what I've said all along. You don't love me, you never did.

Voices keeping me awake tonight. Haunting my soul.

Makes me wonder why I was even born. Gods social experiment on how much pain a person can feel before their pushed off a ledge? Im not even sure I believe a God exists.

Cold, dark, damp earth hugging the remains of the physical shell that once a soul was housed in. Is that death? and if so why does that sound better than this alternative?

Im going to try to sleep, try to not let the voices or nightmares haunt my dreams.tomorrow is a new day,tomorrow I get to shell out a lot of money to pay someone to actually listen to me. Not that anything I say matters.

Don’t Underestimate an Elephant

Elephants are my favorite animals; cemented by the fact that every time I learn more about them I like them more. My husband and I spent today at the Denver Zoo. The zookeeper’s large animal show was crate training of elephants. The zoo has built a multimillion-dollar new exhibit where the two elephants will be moving to. In order to move them they are going to have to put them inside of a crate, tethered, using a crane lift and transport them.

The keepers showed us how they are training them, much like I did our German Shepherds, to learn to like and use their crates. In fact one of the elephants reminded me of my female with her behavior over and over.

Why do I like elephants so much? For one thing they are very much under appreciated. It is the lions, tigers, giraffes, monkeys and bears that get the most attention at zoos. Elephants are smart, loyal and strong.

Elephants in the wild are found in small family groups led by a matriarchal female. The families are made up of several generations and often have several other family groups near by. When elephants meet up at watering holes they are very affectionate to the other elephants. When an orphaned elephant is found, another lactating or multiple lactating females adopt the baby; they don’t leave it to die. Elephants are attentive and good mothers keeping their young with them for years, and then often the younger elephants stay within the same gamily group.

Elephants are very social. They often caress, touch and interlock tusks.

Elephants, unlike many pack animals, do not leave the weak or old behind. In fact it has been observed that a mother elephant, after her daughter died, tried for hours to lift her back onto her feet and back to life. No, elephants gather around the weak and the old, they protect them and keep them safe.

Elephants are ridiculously strong. They can carry trees and crush human’s bones beneath their feet yet they walk on their toes like ballerinas. Elephants are the largest animals on earth currently. Elephants can live to be 80 years old. They are gentle, committed, loyal, and have strong communication skills.

Are you sold yet? When I look at elephants I see a magnificent animal. I don’t see a fat animal; I don’t see an ugly animal. What I see is an underestimated, unappreciated beautifully magnificent animal. That is exactly why they are my favorite of all animals.

There are many people walking around this world right now who insides do not match their outsides. Who might not realize their own strengths or their own inner powers? Sometimes, I wonder if I am not the elephant in the group. Not the lion, tiger, bear, giraffe, or monkey. Not the prettiest or the most flashy, but sometimes strength is not recognized until it is no longer contained but unleashed. 

Memories- A short story in real life time travel.

Started out as mind wondering, turned into more than 2800 words. I shall call this one a short story.

Today I write two blogs. Sometimes, writing is all I have left at the end of the day. When I have nothing more to give I still find words to put down on paper. I am laying here in bed next to a snoring husband; this would normally be the time I would allow myself a brief lapse to cry. But, tonight I was thinking over past memories. Part of losing a friend is letting them go. It has been a hard last two days for me because letting her go has not been easy. I have picked up my phone to text her random texts about my day or something I had seen, or to ask about her child. Each time it has been like a dagger in the heart. More so, finding out her response to all this has hurt a ton. Instead of dwelling on the current pain I thought about some of the good times. I would rather hold on to the good times, let the bad times go, as I let the present turn into the past. When people die this is often done as well, people let go of the negative memories and remember the positive ones.

As I was remembering some of the memories I share with that person it lead to positive ones with my friend Veronica. Which lead me to think about memories as a member of the International Order of the Rainbow for Girls, which lead me to think about high school memories… yep took me down a mighty long pathway on memories road.

Life is not about the days, it is about the moments within the days that make the days memorable. You forget days, you don’t forget memories. I don’t remember all the 10, 523 days I have been alive. Some days I can barely remember what I did yesterday, let alone a week or month ago. If I were to be a suspect in a murder and they asked me, “Where were you and what did you do on September 28^th, 2011?” Would I remember? Would you?

There are certain moments that are emblazed into my memory, tattooed there, permanent. People tend to remember the big days: graduation, marriage, babies being born. We all remember where we were on September 11^th.  There are other memories that are more personal. Some I can tell you the exact day that the memory occurred, others I only remember the moment.

Of course I remember vacations, road trips, and flying to New York to be on the Montel Williams show. I remember the huge days in my life, as does any other person. But, I don’t think the memories of holidays, vacations, and special events are nearly as fun to remember as the ordinary day to day ones that catch you off guard.

A few of the memories shock me because they aren’t memories you would plan on retaining in the bank: when the house was hit by a tornado and the fire department brought me to a friend’s house to stay the night. I was alone with my siblings while my adopted mother was in Vegas, a boy from a grade above me in high school that I had always looked up to, but seemed to be invisible to, was also there at the house. He told me he was proud of me. It was the first time in my life I had heard those words. It was the summer after I turned eighteen.

I remember when Brian held me in his arms and told me he loved me. It wasn’t a lovers embrace. We were on a large hill looking down at our college town. It was a beautiful fall night in September. I was sitting hugging my knees between his legs; he was behind me, pulled me to my back against his chest. We were laughing, I don’t remember what about. I felt comfortable, at home. It was late, had to be early morning, but that never fazed us. Amazing how late one can stay up in their late teens without feeling consequences from the lack of sleep. He said he loved my laugh that it was one of the many things about me he loved. He loved my sense of humor, my ability to care in the snap of a finger. I tried to change the topic, talk about snapping fingers and whistling. He asked why I did that. Why I couldn’t accept love from anyone. He told me his goal wasn’t for me to love him but his goal was for me to learn to accept love from other people. He said he would always love me and I would always be safe with him. That moment resonates clear in my brain, as clear, if not more clear then November 8^th, the night he took his life.

Memories are very powerful. They can evoke strong emotions. There are some that always bring tears to my eyes: Remembering my mother laying in her casket, saying goodbye to a baby that never breathed his first breaths, Brian’s last words the night he died. The feeling of being tossed in a car, it rolling, the blackness. Waking up knowing they were all dead.

There are some memories that you try and try to black out. Halloween is a hard time of year for me. When you find your best friend died, hanging from the ceiling, you try to avoid everything that brings back that sight. Memories of people saying hateful things, of treating you badly, or of seeing things you wish you could unsee, unfeel, unhear. Memories like starving for food, attention and love as a child. Being so cold your entire body is shivering and not sure you will ever be warm again. Memories of being screamed at every single day and night. Of being rejected by home after home. Every once in awhile when I am able to face the demons of the past or when memories haunt me as walking nightmares I think about being abused.

I can feel the steel of the knife slicing into my young arms, the pain of it cutting across my tongue, the burn of the fire racing up my legs. I can feel the sting of the belt cutting into my back, my legs. I can feel the palm of his hand across my face, his fist crashing into my stomach. I can feel his unnatural entry and the blackness overcomes my mind and I escape into a place where his pain can’t reach me.

Those memories you try very very hard to erase. But, even in those memories comes learning, growing, and the comparison to the good. There is value in the negative memories because they make the positive shine so much brighter.

Then there are the good memories. The ones you hold as close as a toddlers favorite blanky. Memories that bring light into your eyes, smile onto your lips, the ones you love sharing.

I remember a night when my friend Megan and I went on a double date with these two cowboys. Literally. I was a bit surprised when after our hilarious dinner at Steak N Shake they took us to an Uhaul storage facility. Turned out, behind the Uhaul Storage place was a wide-open field with the most beautiful view of the never-ending Midwest stars. We pulled up in the trucks, they parked them side by side and opened the doors, put on country music and asked us to dance under the moonlight. We danced and danced. We sat on the end of the truck beds and we talked until the sun came up. It wasn’t a romantic match for either pair, but it was a night that stands out in our memory.

One of my most fond bittersweet memories was when I was in college. A girlfriend and I drove to another college to see a friend perform in a play. We were late getting out of work and drove over 100 miles an hour. Not smart, but we were young and reckless. We made the play. Afterwards we went out to dinner with some of her friends. Then, all young and single, we ended up at a local park the three of us girls with three boys. We swung on the swings while they pushed us, laughing and joking. We broke into pairs, one boy and one girl and wondered around the park, talking, laughing, and making out. Nothing more then a few kiss between adolescents trying to find their way from teens to adults. Gathering back together at the swing set, we watched the sun rise and went to breakfast. We were the first customers at a little doughnut shop. Our doughnuts were hot, melted in our hands and our mouths, the sweetest doughnuts I have ever tasted. I never saw the boy again, cant remember his name or what he looked like, but I remember the doughnuts and my girlfriends. I remember a night of innocent fun, kissing exploration and of time well spent.

I remember the first time I got drunk. I remember because well I almost got arrested. I made it to almost twenty before I drank alcohol. And the night I decided to drink I also decided that a trip to Walmart was in order. Actually, I am not sure who decided to go to Walmart, I just know I was a passenger. We get to Walmart and I suddenly have the bright idea to ride the mechanical horse. I put in a quarter and off I go… and out comes security. Which would have been fine but in my drunken stupor I think the horse is mine and I don’t want to get off, and I cant understand why the guy wont leave me and my horse alone. My friends are dying laughing but not helping matters… security calls the cops and well I guess we were gone before they got there.

Memories take you back in time, make life worth living. You can’t know joy without knowing pain. You can’t appreciate love without feeling hate. I believe all emotions are good emotions. I’d rather feel then not be able to. Sometimes, sad memories are good but most of the time I prefer ones that make me laugh or move me.

I remember where I was when I was informed that Evan was killed in Iraq. In the middle of a field problem, trying desperately to remember where I had left my knife (and not paying any attention to the Cadre.). I remember the older gentlemen who paid for our lunch at the Chinese place after drill one weekend and how shocked I was to be appreciated by a total stranger.

And I will never forget the look on the teenagers face when she rang up the chicken at the grocery store. It was a priceless memory. Mica, James and I had just come in from a long long cold field training exercise. We were in our BDU’s and caked in mud. We were headed to Mica’s house to make dinner. We were freezing, wet and exhausted. I thought making a comfort food dish would be just the thing. We had everything to make chicken and dumplings, but the chicken. Instead of going home and changing, we left and went straight to the store. The girl stared at us for the longest time, finally I said, “The chicken is already dead you know.” And James and Mica started laughing hysterically. Man, it would take days to discuss all the memories I made with them. Days. If you could see the smile that is lighting up my face right now as I think back to those memories. First motorcycle ride, early morning PT’s followed by hot breakfast together, late night taco runs, my first trip to a porn store. There are memories made with friends, memoires made with family and memories made with coworkers. Those of us who have ever put on a uniform, for however long it might have been, will never forget those they served with and those battle buddies that life brought their way.

I won’t forget the night I heard that Hussein was finally put to death or where I was the night Bin Laden was killed, or going to the bar with Steph and Sam afterwards. Feelings coursed through me, as my husband was fighting in Afghanistan at the time, and I had lost so many good friends in battle, the bittersweet conflicting emotions. Fear of retribution on our military, joy that he was dead, guilt for feeling joy over the death of a fellow human being, pride in our Country, a bit of peace and hope that it might, maybe, at some point in time, make the sacrifices more worth it.

I remember falling in love… again and again. Who doesn’t remember their first love? Romance. Ah, romance. What is better then a romantic memory?

I remember my first real kiss. It was at church, in the basement, (where Sunday school was held). I was ten and he was twelve. He wanted to hold my hand afterwards and I liked that better than the kiss. My first date included getting lost on the way back to my house in the country, which meant driving in circles for hours.

Who doesn’t remember losing their virginity? Ill spare you the details.

And I will never forget the first date with my husband. Our first kiss, in the middle of a busy DC street. I wont forget the first time we found out we were pregnant or the first loss of our baby. I remember the first time I saw my male German Shepherd, I can close my eyes and think about his little bitty head and his floppy ears. I can remember the smell of his puppy breath. I can walk by a perfume counter and get a whiff of the perfume my adopted grandmother wore and instantly think of her. Every time I hear a trumpet play I think about my high school boyfriend, Joe, who was killed by a semi truck driver. Whenever I see a mechanical bull I think about the one we rented and put outside our sorority house for the fraternities to ride, a trophy to the house that stayed on the longest, I think about that day, all smiles, and the photo I have of Brian riding the bull that sits on my desk to this day, nearly a decade later.

Memories only take a moment to make. But not all memories have to be big. Sometimes a memory can simply be stopping to take the time to do something together. One of my favorite memories with my husband was an all night Monopoly game. We had started the game on a work night with every intention of stopping when it got late. Suddenly, it is three o’clock in the morning and we are still working on the same game. We had to decide between going to bed for two and a half hours or staying up. A pot of coffee later and we had made one of my absolute favorite memories. I can’t tell you what we talked about or who won the game (pretty sure that was me) but I can tell you the memory was worth the wasted sleep.

I have had this purple stuffed rabbit for over twenty two years. Floppy has held an oceans worth of my tears. I have hugged him on airplanes and trains, during car rides and hospital stays. He has been there to greet me after funerals, birthdays and celebrations. He has gone on every vacation, to church camp, summer camp, trips to the dentist and doctors over his lifetime. He is a representation of memories from childhood to womanhood and beyond. I can hold him and feel the only consistent home I have ever had. His fur is now more gray then purple, his nose went from fuzzy to hard, and he carries the weight he has left in his butt.

But it is he who inspired this blog tonight. He has been touched by those who have meant the most to me in this life and he has held anger, frustration, sadness, joy and hope in his arms. I look at this little stuffed animal that was mass produced in some random factory and sold at some random store that ended up in a little abused, abandoned, and unloved, foster childs arms and I see a lifetime of memories.

Memories are that what makes our lives worth living. They are the breath of the soul. Sometimes in the hustle and bustle of everyday life we forget to take the time to make a new memory. Big or small memories are what kept me alive.  A memory takes an otherwise ordinary day and puts it at the forefront of recollection.  A new memory can add life to our routine.

I am going to try very hard to make more ordinary days into memorable ones. 

Control v. Progress

One of the emotions that a woman going through depression- whether chronic, long or short term, event orientated or otherwise, may feel is the conflicting nature of control. When I miscarried I felt a total loss of control. I could eat what the doctor told me, sleep when she told me, take all the medication in the world but whether the baby lived or died was out of my control. I was helpless. Being helpless is not an emotion that I am ok with. I am a very independent woman; I have had no other choice in my life but to be. I can take care of myself pretty damn well. Having been homeless and going through multiple deployments concretes this. As many other military wives know, when you are living alone with your husband thousands of miles away you find the ability to do anything.

I couldn’t do anything about the situation. I couldn’t control the fate of the baby growing inside of me. I couldn’t fix the owie with a Band-Aid and a kiss. I couldn’t wrap my womb in duct tape or call a repairman to fix it. The entire situation was completely out of my control.

Ever since then I have been uber hyper aware of how these situations in the past have brought control issues to the forefront. I have been watching for the signs. When you face a loss and that loss happens to be something completely out of your control, your timing, your hands… you try to find other things to take into your hands. Because this is not my first loss I am able to recognize that and fight off the demons. I will eat. I will not puke. Fighting the demons of an eating disorder= unhealthy coping mechanism for grief. I have really been struggling lately. I can’t go to the gym yet. The all clear hasn’t been given until next Monday. I feel like instead of controlling anything I have controlled nothing and have spiraled completely out of control.

Which is the complete opposite of how I normally cope. Normally after a loss I hold everything as close to me as possible. Right now I am cutting things out of my life, and people. I normally try to control everything around me: money, food, pets, house, everything. Not this time. This time I seem to have let everything go. This time is a new adventure, new learning environment for me.

My house is dirty. To me, to any visitor, it seems not so much. I don’t have dirty dishes or dirty laundry but the floors need a good scrubbing, the floor boards need washed, the windows are dirty, the bedroom has clothes that need put away, my fridge and microwave need washed down… I could go on and on. For some people my house would be considered fine, but to me it’s a mess. It’s a mess and its driving me crazy. That is something I could control right now, but the depression, medication and body have decided to make it impossible to sleep. I am running on two hours (if I am lucky) a night and then running crazy with errands and things to do during the day. I haven’t had a nap in a week and if I was to add up the amount of sleep I have had in eight days it would be less then twenty hours. My energy is drained by two pm.

So my house is dirty. I haven’t paid attention to our spending and for the first time in a long time our account is way below the balance I allow it to get to. I haven’t felt like cooking so we’ve eaten out a lot. My dogs are acting out because they aren’t getting the attention they are used to. I’ve gained a pound and a half.

Want to know something crazy though? I don’t really care. It’s not bothering me much at all. I think that is the scariest thing about all of this. It is all I can do to live day to day and fight away the demons plaguing me, everything else, well is a bonus. I have homemade spaghetti sauce in the crockpot, the kitchen is clean, and my husbands uniforms are washed. That is not much for me, heck that is what I normally do before lunch and then some. But it’s done, and its progress.

Today when I woke up I didn’t think that I wish I hadn’t. That is progress. Instead I laughed at the way the bear my husband bought me on the way home from Afghanistan some how ended up in my bed and poised so it looked like it was watching me sleep. I looked at the clock and groaned at the fact that I had only gotten two hours of sleep. I groaned louder when a ninety-pound German Shepherd landed on my legs, his front paws on my chest licking my face, demanding I let him out. I padded downstairs in my fuzzy robe and my new slippers that I spontaneously bought myself at Target this week, made a cup of delicious hot coffee and took down the calendar and inserted a counseling appointment into the schedule… with a smiley face. But, not once did I wish I had died in my sleep. That is progress. Might not mean anything to anyone else, but it is a big step for me. It is amazing what hope can accomplish.

I know that I won’t be cured instantly from the depression I find myself rooted in. I know that going to counseling isn’t going to be magic, cure all, for what is ailing me. But, it is a step, a big step, in the right direction. It is a step towards the tools I need for rebuilding. It is a step into a better future. A good house doesn’t get built overnight, this isn’t an Extreme Makeover Home Improvement type experience. I have a great foundation right now, but my tools are old and rusty. I need to update them and fix some of the cracks and destruction that has appeared. The hardware store is in front of me, I just need to make the investment into the tools and make the rebuilding a priority.

So maybe its ok that my house is cluttered, my car a mess, and my dogs driving me up a wall. Maybe its ok that instead of decluttering I took time to have a lunch date with my husband. Maybe its ok that I spent a good hour on the phone with a friend, or writing a blog, both therapeutic to me, instead of dusting. Maybe, just maybe, living today and not resenting it was more important.

Glimmer of Hope

I have never been on psychiatric medication. I am not opposed to it, especially if it helps, and having worked at a psychiatric hospital I know how beneficial they can be. Some mental illnesses, like bipolar, need regular medication to control the symptoms. Other mental illnesses: some forms of depression, anxiety etc can be a short or long term medication process.

Having worked first hand at the State Psychiatric Hospital as well as growing up with family and fellow foster children with mental illness it is not something I take lightly, nor is it something that I am embarrassed of. One of the worst parts about mental illness is the stigma that goes along with it. It is the stigma that prevents some people from seeking out help.

That was not my case. My friends Amanda and Amanda can tell you I called Military One Source going on eight months ago seeking help. For the last eight months I have damn near begged for help within the military mental health system. I called numbers, waited at offices and really tried hard to find a counselor. I am pretty sure, (ok I think everyone is sure) that I am depressed. My pcp handed me (several) scripts for anxiety medication (try each and tell me which works best. Same thing he did with sleeping pills a year ago. Apparently the try them all method is his way of doing things) and told me he couldn’t recommend a counselor I would have to call Tricare.

After rudely being turned away from a mental health facility on post because my husband was in a “Non residential unit”(what the heck does that mean exactly anyway?!) and sitting in the Tricare office for two hours where I was told they couldn’t do the referral Id have to call Tricare and then Tricare sending me to an outdated website, calling Military One Source (three times, at averaging two hours a call!) I had all but given up. I was asking, actually I was begging for help. I KNEW what I was feeling was not ok. It is not ok to wake up in the morning and wish you hadn’t. It is not ok to go through the day hoping it will be your last. It is not ok to live in a fog of film. But I was and the miscarriage just added fuel to an already out of control fire.

Luckily, a friend of mine recommended a place. That’s where I found myself this afternoon. The lady asked a few questions about what was going on to figure out which counselor would work best for me (I told her I am certifiably crazy right now. She laughed. I wasn’t joking! Ha!) and I very evenly told here a brief overview of everything. Not only did she set an appointment for me with her but also with a psychiatrist. One who believes as I do that the medication shouldn’t mask the problem or cure it, but help with it. In other words if I get put on anxiety or depression medication it needs to be short term, helping while I get it under control, not a long term lifetime solution. I know from growing up in foster care and from other circumstances that I am not bi-polar, schizophrenic, or any other form which would require lifetime medication. In fact I’ve never been on medication (well I was on one for sleep that had been used as a pysch med before but now is used for the other properties) so I don’t know how it will affect me. What I did not want was medication without therapy.

While I was there I signed up for a support group. The group is only for women and it meets once a week for an hour and it teaches anxiety and stress coping, interpersonal relationship skills, and many other factors. That group is $5 copay. Not bad. So pretty much I will be doing counseling twice a week, a group and a personal. The group one I just thought was a good idea. I will play that one by ear and see how its working and if its worth going to.

The bad part of all of this is I have to spend $150 as the copay for the first one-hour therapy session and about $45 for each after. It gets a little pricey when you’re going an hour a week. But, my husband says it’s a cheap price to pay to get me back to his happy wife. They told me not to worry about insurance. They booked the appointment, will do all the billing for me and will work with me if for some reason the payments are steep. She said not to worry about anything but coming to my appointment. Even if the referral comes through after the fact they will forward bill. I don’t have to wait for the bureaucracy and red tape to get help. I was worried what if the referral didn’t come through? She said they’ve never had a problem but if it didn’t they would still charge me my copay amount and find another way around it. But, Im not to worry about anything to do with that right now. Just come in.

I had no emotion when I was talking to her about what I needed counseling for. Ive had no emotion explaining to people about the miscarriage. I have been pretty numb. The tears I do cry are in private, briefly and just enough to get out some of the pain. But, as I walked out of the counseling center I found myself start to tear up.

I sat in the car gathering my thoughts for about ten minutes before leaving the parking lot and I will admit I cried. I cried because I felt relief. For a brief second in my otherwise dark day I felt a light of hope penetrate. Someone listened and someone offered help, they didn’t turn me away. It felt like a huge giant step in the right direction. I know it sounds ridiculous but I can’t wait for my appointment just to start healing. 

Today

Alarm clock beeping into subconscious relief waking you to the fact that you are alive. Wishing you could turn off your life as easily as hitting the snooze button. Living the day through a haze of actions and reactions. Alone in your head your plan and plot your demise but you know you could never go through with the actions. Wishing you had the courage, the determination, and the ability to provide the relief in which you seek. The plan is complete, absolutely infallible. The location, ideal. No worry about a known person having to find you, the procedure peaceful, the result: relief. Relief from the agony you go through every day alone. Agony worse then any physical pain could be, agony only you can feel. Words can’t express the pain. Only experiencing it can make it real.

The promise that keeps your life moving forward. The promise that adds another day to your misery. The promise to never end it. Someday you wonder if the pain wont overcome the promise, if the pain does not make you say “Enough!” and you realize you’d rather be with the person you made the promise to then to keep the promise to him.

Crying out for help did nothing more but make you feel more alone, more stupid. Telling the one person you thought could possibly care about your day to day obsession with death and getting no response concretes your uselessness in life. Did he tell you to seek help? Did he tell you he wanted you to live? Did he remove the loaded gun from the nightstand? No. Nothing but a back rub. They never take you seriously. Did we ever take you seriously? Did you make me promise because you knew how much your act would pain me, how much I would want the relief you took with your hands that November night? Did you make me promise because you were struggling and you knew how much our souls were entwined and how maybe, someday I would be in the same painful place you were in? Why? Why didn’t you tell me about your pain? Why didn’t you try sharing it and letting others carry some of it?

I know why now. Because asking for help is redundant. Asking for help when no one loves you is useless. Even sharing with your spouse that every single day, several times a day, you wish you hadn’t woken up, you wish you had died in surgery, in the car accident, when your appendix ruptured. When you finally open your mouth and speak the words inside of you and the answer is… nothing. When you call the number and spend two hours talking to a stranger on the other line who gives you a referral, and you call that number and wait. Call again and wait. Call again. And finally get a human who tells you they no longer accept the referrals they received too many, call the number again. You felt so stupid, so ashamed when you did call and now you are supposed to call again? No thank you. Your doctor says what you are feeling is normal, part of miscarriage, except you have felt this way for years, you tell them, and its not simply around a miscarriage. It is around day to day life. You hate your life. You don’t want to live. But hey, you won’t kill yourself, you wont harm yourself, youll just hope something or someone will do it for you. Another referral. Another rejection. Finding a place that is supposed to help military and their dependents but being looked at like I was stupid and being told I cant use the clinic, my husband is not a residential unit.

Fuck it all. How many times can you seek help? How many times can you admit you have a problem just to be turned away, time after time. Be told there is nothing wrong with you. Be refused help before you just give up? I’ve tried more then most people would before giving up. I thought there would be some help somewhere

Isolation. Isolation from love. Isolation from reality. Alone in your head where your plans of relief, plans of escape take shape. Sitting alone on a concrete garage floor, crying into your shirt, physical reaction of the pain inside, a small symptom of how much you hurt. A two minute break from the walls and the masks you wear. Drying your eyes, clearing your throat, back to acting normal, strong, not phased by anything you have experienced, normal to those around you. Isolation from feeling a connection to anyone else and biologically incapable of producing the one connection you want in life without it you don’t want life at all.

Waiting for the snores to come before allowing yourself to exhale. To cry. The weakness that comes from those tears annoys you but you have pushed so much down inside of you that if you do not allow a physical reaction to the emotional pain to come out each night you may actually explode To hate the fact that one more day was added to this punishment, this never-ending torture called life. Nothing you want more then to fall asleep, but sleep doesn’t come. Hours on hours you think about your failures, your lack of living in your life, the constantly day to day.

Content to continue in this process. Foot after foot, moment after moment, day after day. Cook. Clean. Wash. Dry. Shower. Eat. Breathe. Sleep. Wake. It’s the same. Day to day. Pleasure exists only on the surface, doesn’t get past it. No way to get past the walls. No way in. Just the overwhelming pain that each breath of life breaths. The reminder of how stupid you are, of how inadequate, replaceable, interchangeable, unlovabale. Just existing, just moving through, one day at a time. Reckless imagination hoping for a cure to the pain, lack of courage to follow through with plans, in-between living and existing, just moving… moving… moving…

A smile. “Doing well and how are you?” socially excepted response to “how are you today?” The “Is everything ok?” and the “I’m ok.” Because you’re always ok. You’re expected to be ok. You play the role and you continue on. 

Note: I am not asking for help in this blog. I am not suicidal. I am not going to hurt myself or anyone else. I had promised to blog open and honestly... this is where I am.