Catching on...

fabulous image by my dear cousin and photographer, david kelly

I have come to calling you Johnny Drama. It is a tern I use with both endearing expression and exhaustion. The past few days have allowed me slow down long enough to notice some of the wonder that surrounds you.

I can positively credit Sesame Street with teaching this working mother’s son the alphabet. And you must have learned your colors from your passion for M&Ms. Your imagination has taken off and you create scenes and scenarios for your toys trains and cars to encounter. You are frightfully funny, enormously passionate and intensely dramatic.

I wish my words were strong enough to explain the details of your brilliant personality. I will simply be quiet, hold on to the moments for a touch longer and cherish your hysterical being.

I am so grateful for the love.

Under the Weather

This funny little man I met once by the side of a Mexican pool had a thick French accent and as I listened to him hit on my girlfriend I figured perhaps English was not his first language. Under the hot sun that day, bored with surrounding conversation, I overheard the little Frenchman profess to my slightly interested girlfriend that he "had a depression." I loved how he said it, like it was a passing common cold or something.

I have never forgotten the way he formed that sentence. And I try to remind myself of his simple honesty when I fall into a dark period. For right now, I Have A Depression. I am not depressed, because my depression does not define me. But I do currently suffer from a heaviness in my heart that feels like a misplaced stuffy nose.

Unfortunately, those that surround me do not understand how to care for a depression. It's not like they show up with a tupperware full of chicken soup or anything. And I guess the part the "people-in-my-real-life" fail to see is that when you have a depression, a home cooked meal would be wonderful. Practical problem-solving will not cure my affliction. Just listen when I have nothing to say.

As for the lovelies I have encountered in this space... thank you so for the continued helpings of chicken soup.

SOuL SiStERS

She is a shadowy figure that lurks quietly for three or four days.
At first sighting she rises me to my toes as i consider the symptoms.
A tough week with work.
A tedious toddler stage.
A disconnect from my dear one.

I am able to shift the diagnosis to one or all of the above for a short time...

and then she pounces.

I am following the sunset on an otherwise delightful day,
and the evening is bright and the corn fields are glistening
and then she appears behind my eyes in the rear view mirror.
Almost suddenly I notice the sunlight intensifies.
She pushes down on my shoulders
and my eyelids get heavy as she settles in.

She nestles in the corner of my soul
and i am reminded of all the moments she has interrupted in the past.
I am reminded that she still holds a lease in these parts

I make several quick phone calls to family and friends.
I pretend like everything in normal and ok and great.
I speak in a breezy tone and I hope they don't hear her humming in the background.
They always hang up too quickly
or forget their lines in theatrical presentation of "What I would like them to say."
And when the line goes dead the emotional scab is ripped off a little more.
It bleeds and it burns and I begin to feel faint.

I am reminded that they will never have the right thing to say.
She tells me to never call back because they can always tell...
They can always hear it in my whiny cheerful tone.
and they grow tired of me so they want to hang up quickly.

Because they know,
because they know,
because they know,
that i am depressed.
And she is part of me,
and the tiny little pill will only keep her away as long as i take it,
but without it she will come back.

She nestles into the corner of my soul
and she is grateful she is home,
and i am terrified.

Size Double O Demons

I am not the fattest person in the world. Yet, come Saturday night when I attend my sisters Bachlorette Party... I will feel like it. My dear bride-to-be sisiter is beautiful. She is in fantastic shape and she is tiny. She also has half a dozen girlfriends that match. I truly enjoy their company. They are each brilliant and funny. They are each kind and interesting. I just happen to feel like a beached whale in their compnay. And the thing is... I only care when I am standing next to a woman three dress sizes below me.

When I look at myself in the mirror I like my body. I can appreciate my big breasts that are in proportion with my hips, I like my small waist and slender ankles. When alone, I can fell confindent with the company of my reflection.

But, that same reflection haunts me while sitting slightly slumped over next to my size-double-zero sister and friends...

So I am trying to muster up the courage (without the help of alcohol) to feel fantastic in my own beautiful skin this weekend. I know I look "skinnier" when I have the confidence to sit up straight and truly move with my body instead of trying to fight it and convince it to be something else...

Prayers are welcome. I'll let you know how it goes.

spillage

I am not one to blame my parents for my reoccurring moments of unhappiness.
For they have loved and supported me in every way they were capable.
I know this to be true and my heart aches at the thought of not only disappointing them, but also disapproving of them.

My happiness is my choice.
I will forever be turned off by the 30 year-old who hides in therapy discussing how her parents have ruined her life. My advice to the wounded sibling whom I have witnessed make such accusations has always been… “Grow up already.”

I love and respect my parents.
And now that I have outgrown my rebellious youth, I spend my quiet worried moments hoping they approve of everything I do and everything I am. Everything.

And yet, sometimes I am emotionally paralyzed as I recall the moments when they just didn’t show up for me. I am frightened when I realize I do not approve of or appreciate every choice they made. I am deeply saddened as I recall their times of parental desertion.

My son is two-years-old.
The sun has started to set on a stunning day. A day I feel I did not live up to.
I am tired and I do not want to discuss the wheels on his classic toy car. I would like to give up playing the train conductor. I would like a hot bath while listening to the ice clank against the cold drink that I usually reserve for weekends.

I am tired and I look into his eyes. I am reminded of the moments my parents abandoned me. I wince as I realize the wounds are still there. I squeeze out a smile as grab my plastic hotdog and ask him to pass the mustard.

My Boys

Who steers the ship through the stormy sea
If hope is lost then so are we

While some eyes search for one to guide us
Some are staring at me

But I'm no hero
Though I wish I could be
For I am just a boy,
Too young to be sailing
I am just a boy,
And my future is unveiling
And I'm so frightened of failing


"Just A Boy" ~ Kiss

A Simple Moment

Traveling from northern Illinois to central Wisconsin was like navigating a labyrinth of cornfields. In the steaming heat, the brilliant maize corncobs popped from the lush green stalks. I tried to catch one falling from its husky cradle but got dizzy, as the scenery remained stagnant. And then, like a burst of fresh air during on an otherwise stagnant day, a field of day lilies jumped out of the earth and exclaimed joy from each and every petal. It was an extraordinary site.

I have vowed to stop every year. A little longer next time.