TG is ready for 2015!

2014:

My favorite experience was our spring break trip in April. Even though it didn't carry into the rest of the year, the fun we had and silliness and love experienced made it just about perfect!

My biggest accomplishment was at work I think. I really got more and more comfortable with my job and coworkers and tried many new things. It was a great year professionally!

My favorite place to visit is still the beach. I find the waves, the salt air, the sunshine, the whole experience rejuvenating, I will always choose the beach!

The best meal is a simple one. Margherita pizza, cheeseburgers, something delicious but not complicated.

A free day almost always involves sleeping in, reading books, and enjoying time with family/friends.

My favorite book? NO WAY! I have too many books I love and I read voraciously.

My favorite movie is kind of up in the air, too. Not because I love so many but because I prefer books or live people.

One way I'd like to grow in 2015 is to travel, I'd like to experience different places and spaces.

2015:

I want to continue focusing on my health. I have been committed this year to making small changes that will help me lose weight as well as be healthier. I plan to carry that momentum into 2015.

I want to try flying. It has been years since I flew because I am so concerned about my weight and being accepted on a plane. I'd like to be brave and bite the bullet.

I want to stop being so messy. I would like to maintain a certain level of tidiness and not feel like a big clean-up is necessary every couple of weeks.

I'd like to visit Paris, Puerto Rico, Houston, and Las Vegas.

My goals for this year are to continue to improve emotionally, physically and professionally. I am excited for all that 2015 will bring!

TG Changes her view, not her look

Many years ago I came across a picture of a chubby belly with hands shaped in a heart over the bellybutton. The caption said "Change your view, not your look." I loved that idea, it took the onus off me and everyone else who felt like they had to change something about their appearance to fit society's idea of beautiful.

But the idea is broader than skinny and fat, tall or short, and fashion statements. It also applies to how I see the world, how I can change my view on things. Once I embraced that idea so many things became easier, clearer, less painful. Songs that reminded me of old loves began to sound hopeful and promising. Books that contained loss weren't about the loss but about how the hero or heroine overcame. Holidays and seasonal changes no longer are melancholy but exciting as new traditions and memories are made.

The benefits of changing my view? There are hundreds! I am able to be grateful and happy and thankful. I can focus on the many blessings I have rather than ruminate on the losses and things that didn't work as I had wished. And there is a lot less guilt - I don't feel responsible for nearly as much sadness and hurt as I once did, I am able to be authentically optimistic and that feels really good.

There are drawbacks, too... my teenager recently told me that optimism was fine but wouldn't I be better off being a realist? And there are disappointments, certainly. Things I thought and hoped would work one way, didn't.  But all in all, changing my view has been wonderful for me... I feel so much more peaceful than I thought I could. And that is an amazing gift!

That Girl and the doldrums

I am usually a pretty cheerful sort, a glass half-full kinda girl. But I am in a bit of a funk. For the last two months or so I just feel "blah" and am having a hard time shaking it. And I think one of the reasons is that there is no real reason why. There have been lots of bumps in the road, many things that have challenged my patience and empathy and bank account but nothing really BAD has happened.

I finally realized that this wasn't just going to go away, I needed to be a little bit proactive in solving the problem. I wrote to my therapist and made an appointment with my psychiatrist. I am exploring things from a different perspective and that is helping. Tweaks in my medication will hopefully help, too, but it takes longer to see those results.

While I am safe, going to work, doing the laundry and errands that often fall by the wayside when depression gets the best of me, I am not very happy. I am actually very NOT happy. Life seems grayer, lonelier, and far more irritating that it should. It is often said that anger turned inward becomes depression and whoo-boy do I do angry well these days. I don't want to be bothered with much of anything and just about everyone gets on my nerves. None of which helps the utter emptiness that I can't seem to fill.

I miss being half of a partnership. I would really, really like someone who actually cares about the answer ask me how my day was. I would like to be understood on some level without offering lengthy explanations or justifying my response. And even more so, I would like to ask someone about their day and actually care about the response. Have someone whose company trumps whatever is on Netflix and Pinterest that night.

I know this too shall pass. I know the steps to take to regain some of the happiness I am missing. I won't feel this way forever. But I wish the decorations were better while I am here - it is a very taupe and gray world!

TG relates to "Soon Enough"

That Girl on White Privilege

It seems necessary to follow yesterday's blog titled "Black Lives Matter" with one that discusses how easy it is to be white. It isn't always easy to be female - just look at how rich those who own Tampax, Kotex, and Midol are - and it is rarely easy to be fat - just walk into a room full of chairs with arms - and it isn't ever easy to struggle with money. But it is always, ALWAYS easy to be white.

Despite the fact that I choose colorful, glittery, princess themed band-aids for my own "boo boos," there is no flesh tone band-aid available for someone of color. But that is a rather simple example. How about not ever being followed in a store? Or by a police officer as I drive? Stereotypes benefit assumptions about me, they don't work against me. And really, they shouldn't, I don't actually deserve that. I work on a team at work of 4 women. I am the only one that is white. I am also the only one with a criminal record. And the only one who smoked crack. And I am the least educated. But given the facts, I am probably not the first one who would be assumed to be any of those things. And that is pretty sad. No, very wrong!

Jesus looks like me. Santa Claus looks like me. Angels and elves and historical heroes look like me. If Black History Month hadn't come around every February I wouldn't know about the contributions of Blacks to life as I know it (where would our bodies and lives be without the contributions of Drs. Drew and Williams?). But that isn't as easily spewed from the mouths of elementary school students as Thomas Edison's achievements. And it seems the only Black we learned about faithfully, Martin Luther King, Jr, had to go so far as dying to make it into history books.

I am not discounting all that White authors, crusaders, and inventors have given us. I am not arguing that Blacks are more important than Whites. That they are brighter, more talented, more deserving of recognition or thanks in any way. I am merely stating that they are no less bright, no less talented, no less deserving because they have more (beautiful!) melanin in their skin. And being white shouldn't mean I am safer, more trustworthy, or chosen in any way. Being white should only mean I need a higher SPF sunscreen!

* special thanks to the fabulous Substantia Jones whose comments about White Privilege got me thinking and writing.

That Girl Knows Black Lives Matter

Loaded title, I know. And the topic is, too. It is sure to make some people angry. But I am angry. I am confused and scared and... angry. Why is a 12-year-old boy dead in Cleveland for playing with a fake gun? Even if it had been a real gun, couldn't a veteran police office (one had 10+ years) control a situation better than having to shoot a young boy twice? Why - again! - is Trayvon Martin dead? Why are so many black bodies dying violently? Many at the hands of law enforcement? And why oh why oh WHY is Officer Wilson NOT culpable in the death of Michael Brown? WHY NOT?

And what can I do? I don't believe I fall into the group of whites considered to be in denial of the racial state in our country. And I would adamantly declare I am not a white supremacist. But... I don't know how it feels to lose a child to violence, I don't know how it feels to have everyone in a room have an opinion about me before I even arrive because I have a "black" sounding name, I don't know what it is like to have to question everything I say, do and think because someone may take umbrage or feel I haven't hit the right balance of gratitude and respect.

I do know that there is white privilege, I have benefitted from it without even knowing it was happening. I encourage my son to seek help from those in uniform if there is an emergency, it would never occur to me that he needs to fear a police officer or deputy sheriff. My worrying and helicopter parenting doesn't include the fear the my son will be in the wrong place at the wrong time or that he would be judged on his brown eyes and brown curls - because his skin isn't brown. Not to say we haven't encountered racism; his last name is as Latino sounding as his heritage is, and that has caused judgment. But it isn't life threatening. I take it as an opportunity to educate, not as something to fear.

All well-intended but it doesn't really help. I am afraid of doing the wrong things so I don't do brave things (it is very easy and anonymous to make a donation to an organization that supports your beliefs, really it is). I am afraid of not being educated enough or perceived as having the wrong motivation, so I don't act. But I need to. And so does everyone I know. We need to advocate for what we know is right, despite our fears. We need to take risks - to be brave - in ways that Black people are every day by necessity, not choice. When we see bigotry, discrimination, blatant racism, we need to take control of that moment and not allow it to happen.

If we do nothing, nothing will change. And that would be a horrible travesty.

That Girl on Money

Well, not on it, because there isn't really enough to create a seat, but about it. That Girl ABOUT money. Or, even more correctly, on the lack of money.

Like Spkie Milligan once said "All I ask is the chance to prove that money can't make me happy." I, too, would love that chance. Would love the opportunity to show that the things in which I fiercely believe - gratitude, loyalty, humor, love - are more powerful than the amount of money in my bank account. But it is getting harder and harder to do that. My frivolous spending has dwindled to almost nothing; Starbucks isn't an occasional treat now but only a special occasion. I am constantly robbing Peter to pay Paul as the saying goes and it is getting harder and harder to stretch my pennies from one paycheck to the next.

The worst part of this is how it affects my son. He doesn't ask for things he needs (like new socks) and is very cautious about how he handles his money, squirreling away money from dog walking jobs and the like because he is afraid there won't be enough. While I admire his ability to save and his appreciation for the value of hard earned money, I am saddened that this is something my son has to live. Even as a little boy he had the same attitude; in the drugstore, holding a Spiderman coloring book, asking me if the piggy bank was hungry or full.

I cannot afford to live alone (without roommates) because it is too expensive to afford a 2 bedroom apartment. I know the number of the company who financed my car loan and dread seeing it on my phone - an all too frequent occurrence. I juggle the weeks I get gas and buy groceries because I can't do both. I listen patiently as my father reminds me of my age and that I am "too old for this."

I go to work every day, to a job I love and into which I put a lot of enthusiasm. I make - on paper - a decent salary. But each and every day is a struggle. And it wears on me, bit by bit, especially when I found out my son needs socks.

TG swirls

Breast cancer is an awful disease. At best, it is a disease that tears through a woman's life and wreaks havoc on her health, sense of self and femininity, her finances, those who love her... it touches every part of a life and has a ripple effect. But it is an "ok" disease to have. Those with breast cancer aren't blamed for their disease. They don't have to hide from friends, family, and coworkers when they lose their hair or get sick from chemotherapy. I am not implying that anything about breast cancer is acceptable, easy, or deserved... I am just noting that the general public accepts it as a horror. 

Yesterday two delightful young women with whom I work were discussing the fact that October is both Breast Cancer Awareness month and Domestic Violence Awareness month. They were perturbed that Domestic Violence potentially stole some of the spotlight that they felt should be fully devoted to Breast Cancer awareness, research and treatment.  When I mentioned that Domestic Violence "claimed" October first, that it affects far more women than breast cancer and had devastating impacts on women, families, places of business, etc. they were dubious. Once said she was too busy walking with Susan Komen to pay attention to Domestic Violence.

So I thought I would get some information to share about Domestic Violence and Breast Cancer. I hope that seeing these statistics will help people realize how very real the impact of domestic violence is and how much attention we need to bring to the problems caused by Domestic Violence. We need to put the same energy and effort we did into educating about breast cancer into educating and reducing domestic violence. It will do the world a world of good!

The chance of a woman having invasive breast cancer some time during her life is a little less than one in eight. The chance that a woman will be a victim of domestic violence is one in four. Twice as many women are victims of Domestic Violence than Breast Cancer.

That breaks down to about 232,340 women a year diagnosed with invasive breast cancer... but 1.3 MILLION are assaulted by a boyfriend/husband/intimate partner. One in three female homicide victims are victims of Domestic Violence and more than 3 women on average die daily.

No one blames a woman for getting breast cancer but many women who are victims of Domestic Violence are questioned about what they did, why they deserve this abuse. No one believes more education or choosing a different job or not having a baby in her teens will cause a woman to find a tumor in her breast but women without college educations or in lower paying jobs or who have children early in life are considered culpable in their abuse. But there are women who have multiple degrees and earn large salaries with no children who suffer at the hands of their partners. Domestic Violence doesn't discriminate any more than breast cancer but that isn't well understood. 

Maybe one day we will be able to have an awareness month that blends both Domestic Violence and Breast Cancer. A pink and purple month that celebrates women and puts effort, energy and funding into stopping both these travesties. And swirly lids on yogurt, swirly socks on football players, and a difference being made for all women.

TG goes PURPLE

Even strangers comment to me that I must love pink given my attire and glasses and silly, pink, desk decorations. But in October, I will embrace purple in its amethyst and heliotrope and lilac glory in an effort to educate people about Domestic Violence. 

The first Domestic Violence Awareness Month was in October 1987. Prior to that, there had been Domestic Violence Awareness Events and Days of Unity but not a whole month. In the United States, 1 in 4 women is a victim of Domestic Violence. One in three women who are murder victims are killed by a current or past partner. Men suffer from Domestic Violence, too. While they are victims less often - 1 in 9 men - that is a lot of pain and suffering from someone who professes to love you. Not all abuse is physical; emotional, verbal, and financial abuse are also ways partners try to control their partner.

The good news is that there is help. You can turn to your physician, local Department of Human Services, call the National Domestic Violence Hotline at: 1-800-799-7233 (SAFE), or call police if you are in immediate danger. If you are a victim, be gentle with yourself. If you are a friend or loved one of a victim, remember that healing is a process and it isn't as easy to just leave as you may think it is. 

Wear purple, especially in October, to help raise awareness. And check back frequently for information about Domestic Violence and ways you can make a difference. 

TG Wonders when FAT became as scary as a serial killer

I read an article yesterday about a social experiment that was conducted about online dating. A woman using Tinder posted authentic photos of her rather thin self. When she met 5 men, she was wearing make up and a body suit that made her look heavier. She was still blond and bubbly and engaging but she was FAT! And evidently the biggest fear men have about online dating is that the woman they actually meet will be fat. And if the 5 men portrayed in the short clip are a fair representation of how men react to excess weight, men in general should be very ashamed of themselves. One man excused himself to the bathroom and never returned to the table. Another apologized, because he was quite suddenly married. Only one of the men made it to the end of the date.

Let's fast forward a bit, to a man in face makeup and a body suit, who is meeting 5 women. He is also heavier than his photos with a belly so big that his shirt doesn't stay tucked into his jeans. All 5 women stay for the whole date, one kisses him goodbye and he gets second dates, too. Even when expressing surprise in his appearance not one of them was rude, insulting, or hurtful. They laugh with him, engage in conversation and flirt. Maybe that is because the greatest fear of women who use online dating sites is that the man they meet will be a serial killer. Hmmm, serial killer or fat? One seems much more dangerous than the other. Do men think woman who carry extra weight are capable of smothering them? Is that from where their fear stems? Though my snarky self is quite sure if the extra weight were presented as larger boobs or a bouncier ass they might not complain. But I digress, I should be taking that fear of fat far more seriously.

If you'd like to see the videos and read the original article, please click here. You may learn something, I certainly did. I wish it was more enlightening than reinforcing my opinion that women are the kinder, more gracious sex and that many (not ALL) men are far too attached to emaciated bodies and have no clue what they are missing by dating someone who is bright, witty, and fun but does not wear a single dress size. I have decided I am less afraid of potential serial killers than I am of shallow, narrow-minded men. Phew, I need a drink  - or an ice cream cone!

An additional note, I find this outrageous, in a most horrific way. Perhaps I shouldn't have looked for a picture to include?

TG As Mom

For those of you who know me personally, you know my greatest joys and most frequent insecurities come from being a mother. I wonder about my older son, placed for adoption at birth, all the time. I want to know the sound of his voice and know what his hands look like. I question if the space I am trying to respect is what he needs or if I should be trying to contact him, reaching out to him, reiterating my love for him. And for my 17 year old son I worry about his safety and happiness and homework and... everything.

A huge part of my worry and concern is because of the many years I was not a very good mom. I have been treated for most of my life for depression and anxiety and the worst of it was from about 2005 - 2010. My younger son was 8 when I was hospitalized for the first time in his life. Two more hospitalizations followed as did lots of therapy. He was aware of as much was age-appropriate and there weren't secrets kept from him. His little world had essentially turned upside down and he had many, many questions. My family and I tried to address each one in an honest way that wouldn't confuse him or scare him any further.

In 2014, I am much healthier. I take my medication, I have an incredible support system, and a caring, available team of therapists. I am in remission and I am well. I am hopeful that this will last; I have tools I never did before and I am active in my recovery. Yet the worry about the damage I may have done lingers.

I recently asked my younger son if he feels like a character in a TV show we watch. The young man on the program has a mother who has schizophrenia and there are some episodes that touch on the impact her illness has had on his life. My son was quiet for quite some time after I asked and then said he wasn't sure how to answer the question. It seems that even handling a bad situation in the best way possible you still aren't able to change it to a good one. And while my son will have empathy and understanding and patience that was born from my illness, I wish he didn't have to have them. I wish he didn't know the difference between a psychiatrist and a therapist. I wish that his life hadn't been infringed upon by my depression, my anxieties, my illness. But he does know and it did affect him. So I am grateful for the amazing, compassionate, easy-going young man he is. And I am blessed beyond measure to be his mom.

TG ponders 37%

I have been reeling since the murder of Michael Brown ten days ago. Not that I have any particular right to reel, I don't live there, I didn't know the young man, I am insulated in my DC suburb by the (hopeful) belief that MY police force is more open-minded, empathetic, better trained, diverse... all the many things that would prevent what happened to Michael Brown from happening here.

I am shocked by what happened, sickened by the fact that he lay on the street for HOURS. By a video I watched, open-mouthed, of the attack on Kajieme Powell that ended his life with nine - 9! - bullets because he had taken two energy drinks which he left on the street. Or what about Victor White who committed suicide, while handcuffed behind his back, in a patrol car? At least according to the Iberia Parish, LA Police Department - even though he was not armed and the shot that killed him was INTO his chest and OUT his back. There are dozen, scores, hundreds more similar stories. Young, Black men (some women but mostly men) are unarmed and being killed BY OUR POLICE OFFICERS. 

And I read an article today by Pew Research Center for the People and the Press discussing the reaction to the shooting death of Michael Brown. And in that article one of the statistics shared is that only 37% of White Americans feel that this event "raises important issues about race." 

Thirty seven percent, approximately one third of White Americans. How can this possibly be true? How can the other 63% of Whites, 60 % if we are rounding, feel that race isn't an issue that needs addressing? Immediately? How can so many people I see every day, my coworkers and commuters and citizens that need my assistance multiple times a day, not feel we are at a crisis point? How can so many feel that a Black life is disposable?

So that is what I am pondering today. And what is angering and saddening me today. I hope that everyone I know falls into that 37%, that no one to whom I am related or call a friend believes that these losses are ok. And I hope against hope that Michael Brown and Trayvon Martin and Victor White and Kajieme Powell rest in peace. And that their parents, their mothers, are able to move forward and make sure their sons lives mean something.

TG Hopes

I am going to add my voice to the full and loud chorus discussing mental health awareness, hoping to end the stigma and shame of having a mental health diagnosis, and mourning the recent death of Robin Williams. I am not sure I have anything profound to share but writing is a catharsis for me and maybe something I say will resonate with someone out there. Maybe something will help.

I am a woman, middle-aged, a sister, a daughter, a niece, an aunt, and an incredibly thrilled mom. I am a best friend and a good teammate. I am pretty smart and fairly silly and quite passionate. I am beautiful. I am a lover of pink and read voraciously and think naps are God's gift. I am also diagnosed with major depressive disorder and generalized anxiety order and obesity. I am medicated - yes, THOSE medicines, I am a felon, I have used drugs and been a victim of domestic violence. I have had suicide ideations, a suicide plan, and have been hospitalized - yes, THAT hospital.

I am a survivor and have been thriving for a few years now - longer than at any other point in my life. I have worked very hard to get where I am and in no way deserve all the credit for this transformation; I am blessed with an excellent healthcare team including a really, really, really (yes, really) excellent therapist. They taught me how to stop spinning my wheels and start making changes. They worked with me to tweak my medications as one stopped working or another suddenly began making me vomit. They helped me create a safety net and a plan so that I wouldn't fall back into that black hole again. And they are there still when the road gets a little rocky or the sky a little stormy. 

And they taught me the importance of having all of this in place because the speed from which a person can go from well to suicidal is quicker than a hummingbird's wings. It happens subtly and quietly and lets you think you are just a little tired or work is creating a little more stress and before you know it, there is a huge abyss in front of you and if you aren't careful, you will free fall right into it.

I am incredibly lucky I never did fall. Lucky that the stars aligned and kept me safe. Lucky that no one had the audacity to call me selfish or a coward for feeling so very bad. I am lucky. And blessed. And oh so very grateful. Remember how hard it can be to ask for help, to even know you need help. Reach out to someone, offer a literal or figurative hand. Smile at other people, hold the door, toss your change into the collection plate or the cup in an outstretched hand. Flirt with babies and pet dogs and stop to smell the way your world smells just before it rains. And after that rain, look up... you might just see a rainbow. And if you do, point it out to someone. You may save a life.

Taken 8/12/14, at about 6:00 p.m. in Arlington, VA

Sometimes OCD is the only control TG has

I am a snob about many things. Probably not the important things: my taste in music is rather... pedestrian, my palate is not the most evolved, and I value comfort first and foremost when dressing. But there are things about which I am quite opinionated and, ahem, vocal. Coffee needs to be good, grammar rules need to be adhered to - strictly. Manners are very important, too. And so is matching, matching is really very important. And those close to me will tell you that I am not just insistent but obnoxious about it.

One day my son was wearing jeans and a new black t-shirt. He looked very handsome. He was also wearing grey Converse and while grey normally coordinates quite nicely with both denim and black I know he owns black Vans, too. And it was a funny little itch all day long that he wasn't wearing the black shoes. I have more than one friend who teases me about her appearance stating she hoped not to disappoint me. On one occasion a friend called to ask me to bring different colored barrettes when we met to go out; she had changed her shirt and her barrettes no longer matched. She knew it would bother me. Most seriously was the morning I was having brunch with Max and a dear friend; she was wearing a sweater I had given her. But the shirt underneath was red while the sweater was pink and purple and black. No one would have know the shirt didn't match the pink parts of the sweater, it actually looked cute. But I KNEW and that itch was back. I even called my mother to tell her I knew I was being ridiculous but... I couldn't help it.

All this to say that I believe the reason for my "matchy-matchy" personality is that it makes things neat and tidy. It provides control in a slightly chaotic and disorganized (NOT unorganized!) world. It soothes me when I feel like the silver ball bouncing around a pinball machine. Coordinated clothing is happy clothing. 

When looking for a photo to add to the blog I ran across this site and was a little taken aback. I am all for individuality and creativity, but am not sure I could rally to this challenge. For those of you who can though, please share your pictures: 

And if any of you have overcome this type of OCD, please share your tips - my friends and family will thank you!

"Love"

My very intuitive and lovely friend Erin Callahan sent me this song by Jana Kramer yesterday titled simply "Love." She knows me so well... it has become my anthem. The lyrics begin with "I still believe in fairy tales... I still believe in shooting stars... and butterflies you get right before you kiss for the very first time." I could have written them... I believe in them as much as I believe the sun rises in the east and that coffee is a gift from the Gods.

And I realized over the weekend I still believe in him, the one about whom I wrote last week. I was hurt and the fallout from what I wrote was quite ugly. I feel pretty rotten about the things said. We came to the end of something. But I don't hate him. I don't wish him pain or loneliness. I still wish him a lot of joy. And wish that he always feels love. I hope there may be a day when we can laugh about "Leon and Margaret" and even, maybe, play Scrabble again. I hope to get periodic pictures of his son as he enters Middle School then High School. When Max got his Driver's License Saturday, I emailed him right away. I rubbed the spot on my tattoo that represents him over and over... not to hide it but as I remembered all the things about him that made me want him represented not just to me but on me.

And this afternoon I was talking to someone about reading and my love of words... new words, the way they play off one another, that I am drawn to songs because of their lyrics more than the actual music. I tried to explain that words are tangible in my mind, they aren't just two dimensional shapes on a page but are colorful and have texture. Words hold power and magic and words hold... love. And some of the words I feel and see and taste about him are: hard-working, smart, stubborn, father, reliable, witty, beautiful, strong, icing, silly, dubious. Those aren't all he is - I don't think any of us can be just a few words - but he is those things. Thank you Erin, and Jana Kramer, for reminding me of them!

With Erin, Summer 2013, National Harbor

TG would like a one way ticket to oblivion, please!

Technology must be the bane of the unfaithful's existence. With text messages and emails and instant messages and social media, being sneaky and having secrets is far more dangerous than it used to be.

Last night I was playing around on my phone, waiting for someone, and Google Play suggested I look at applications my friends enjoy. Alrighty then, I am game for, well, games - educate me Google! Except that the first recommendations were for dating sites that the man with whom I have been in love for many years rated 4 stars and 5 stars respectively. I tried to minimize the sucker punched feeling by rationalizing these ratings were given in December of 2012 and January of 2013 but quickly realized we were more "on" than "off" then. For his birthday that December I gave him a ring and explained that even when things weren't so good we were like the ring, we went in a circle and the good stuff was as bright as the diamonds that sparkled on the front of the ring.

What frustrates me most about this is that there is no way to have this conversation. I will be accused of making assumptions, making a mountain out of a mole hill, making us more important than we actually are. There is no way to eradicate the sickening feeling that I am not, was not, and won't ever be "enough" for this man. And right now it feels like there is no way to leave him behind. No way to forget his slow smile or beautiful hands or channel the breathtaking, all encompassing love I have for him into a healthy distance.

Maybe we aren't supposed to forget our true loves? Maybe you can't have both: a true, deep, mad love that is also fulfilling and healthy? Or maybe you have to earn that love. Or, most likely, I have no idea. What I do know is that the feeling of missing this man isn't as horrible as the feeling of knowing I am not who he wants. And I know I hope this time I can be as brave as he has tried to teach me to be so that I can just be, just me - happily!

The power of magic

My FaceBook status this morning reminds people to look for and believe in the joy and magic all around us. Which, to many, may seem a little fantastical and perhaps not based in reality. But I beg to differ.

Depending on how you define magic, it is every where. I don't mean spells and wands and turning toads into princes. What I mean is the magic of hope. And I mean the magic of love. And I mean the breath taking, heart stopping sensation that holding a new baby causes. Magic can be that weightless sensation you have when you start to fall in love and the way you feel the first time you kiss someone. But it is also the familiar scent of the man you love and the safety and warmth being in his arms brings. It isn't just a new baby but it is watching your six year old ride away without training wheels for the first time or your high school graduate cross the stage.

The only problem with this joy, this magic, is that it hides very well. It hides behind the horror of being the parent of a child, learning at school, who is suddenly gone, the victim of out of control gun violence. It is hidden in the charred remains of a plane, smoldering in Eastern Ukraine, that had been full of mothers and fathers and 100 children headed to vacations and conferences and visiting loved ones. A plane that was shot down because of petty arguments started by tyrannical people whose need for control and power trumps the basic right of just living. This magic hides in the cracks of broken hearts and is drowned out by the noise of life support machines.

But it isn't hiding from us, it isn't coyly flirting, but instead it is waiting patiently to be discovered. We have to be still, and quiet, we have to trust someone. And if we are brave enough to do that, if our defeated souls can hear the whispered voice of hope encouraging us to "try one more time" we will learn to believe in magic. And we will find joy.

But... it is 2014? TG is dumbfounded

Yes, I wear "rose colored" glasses. Yes, I tend to believe the best about a situation until the opposite is beaten into me with a bat. Yes, I am trusting and optimistic. No, I am not nearly as aware as I should be about the bias, bigotry and cruelty that non whites continue to face.

Diversity and inclusion are topics that always foster passionate conversation. Conversations regarding them happen everywhere by just about everyone. Even before children understand the concept as a whole, they are aware that there are differences and that those differences somehow matter.

I feel like I have seen and heard a lot about race in just the last week. I read an article about the Student Body President at the Lawrenceville School, Maya Peterson, who was forced to step down. She posted arguably offensive pictures mocking the typical male students at her school. You can argue that as President of the Student Body she shouldn't have done or said anything that may have alienated any members of the student body. Ms. Peterson's point that creating an environment of inclusion for the 21% of Asian students and 16% of black/Hispanic students was a priority seems pretty inclusive and important to me. 

But it isn't only the one event at the Lawrenceville School. On the news this morning I caught the tail end of a report regarding the shooting of a Mexican youth near the US/Mexico border. The young man was in Mexico and was shot multiple times and killed. Later that day I did an online search to find more information about the incident and was shocked to discover that it wasn't a one time event, Sergio Hernandez and Jose Antonio Elena Rodriguez are just two of the more recent victims. While some of those shot are trying to sneak into the border illegally, excessive force is often used. And there are tens of thousands (some estimates say 60,000 to 80,000 annually) who are fleeing their homes to a safer place. I know this is not a solution, that we as a country cannot absorb everyone who struggles, but I wonder if the reaction would be the same if these were white Canadian children?

Incidents in my personal life that I viewed as isolated are becoming too numerous to not be symptomatic of a larger problem. A friends 12 year old son, who happens to be black, was helping me at the store and is chastised for having my debit card; the same card that my white son uses all the time without anyone blinking an eye. Wandering a CVS with a black coworker; she is followed and asked numerous times by the same person if she needs help. The same person has seen me throughout the store and hasn't asked me once. Learning Spanish vocabulary from a friend and being shocked when she is told "You are in America, speak English!" She is as American as I am, and speaks English, Spanish and German eloquently and beautifully.

How did I not know that this still happened? That judgments are made in a heartbeat based on the texture of someone's hair, the color of their skin, or the lilt in their voice? I feel guilty that a fluke allowed me to be white - yes ALLOWED - and that the benefits I reap from that have nothing to do with my talents, intelligence, or hard work. And I wonder what I can do that would help begin to level the playing field. If you know, please let me know.

Things TG has learned recently

In no particular order, these are the things that I have learned in the last week (or so):

• I want to lose enough weight so I can fly - there is so much of the world I want to see
• I find history more and more interesting, especially when I can pick the time and place about which to read
• Gala apples are some of the very best, crisp and juicy and just the right mix of sweet tart
• The sharper the cheddar, the more I like it
• Gala apples and extra sharp cheddar together is becoming one of my favorite things to eat
• The bathroom stall on the right is more narrow than the one on the left
• The letter "I" is my least favorite vowel in Words With Friends, it should be worth AT LEAST 10 points!
• Flowers delivered, especially to work, are ALWAYS a treat
• Flowers in my hair is almost as fun

• While I can drink and even like Diet Coke and Crystal Lite, I do not like sugar free creamer at all
• Insecurities about yourself are best not shared too openly - fake confidence can morph into real confidence
• I really need bifocals
• Vacation planning is not very fun
• Expensive perfume is worth the cost
• Not everyone expresses friendliness and care the same way but it is just as genuine
• Being prepared and organized really does make things easier
• Just because you ignore what you know doesn't mean it has changed
• I judge some things too harshly
• And others not nearly harshly enough
• I am happy

Nothing earth shattering here, many of you are probably saying "Well, yeah!" Feel free to enlighten me on other things about which I am being obtuse. And thank you for reading!

TG eats some humble pie

That title is much more polite than what I wanted to use but I am not sure it is as accurate. What I wanted to say was "TG learns just how bad her sh!t stinks!" And it was not a pleasant lesson to have to learn.

I have talked about the efforts I made in therapy the last few years and the work that DBT therapy was. And hopefully I conveyed how worth the effort and work it was. I changed from a simpering, whiny mess who embraced the role of victim into someone who is able to participate and learn, someone who not just appreciates life but loves it. While I wouldn't have said I have grandiose notions of myself, I was rather confident. Perhaps even cocky. 

I wrote last week about the Peer Certification class I had taken and what I hoped to learn from it. I was excited about it... I feel like I have something to give back and this was an amazing opportunity to do so. I was learning new things and had made a real step towards achieving my goals.  I was all set to complete the second week of training today but then I received a call from the coordinator. 

While I did well on our test and seemed to grasp the concepts, I was a risk they were not prepared to take. They did not feel I could respectfully and safely model recovery behavior. To say I was surprised would be an understatement. To say I felt hurt and embarrassed - no, humiliated! - came no where close to explaining my reaction. 

I cried, I talked to my mom, I withdrew a little bit so I could process this news. I let my boss know I would be at work on Monday despite all her efforts to encourage and support me. I admitted to Leon that I thought of him while hearing this news and tried to take his constructive criticism graciously... it was about listening though so I am not sure I heard it all ;)

I don't mean to sound as if I feel sorry for myself or am putting myself down. Quite the contrary actually. I am working on being mindful of the lesson so that it is truly a lesson. Learning to navigate our way along a winding and sometimes hidden path is a very necessary skill; without it we may move but only along the same trail.

TG Comes Out of Hibernation

I cannot believe it has been a month since I have written a post! I promised Sarah B. I would post over a week ago and yet... I didn't! I promised myself I would post every Tuesday and Friday and yet... I haven't. I have 1001 things to share, most of which I think are interesting, which hopefully means at least 25 will actually BE interesting.

I spent the last week in a training session for certification as a peer counselor.  Once I am certified I will be able to work with persons who have a mental health and/or addictions diagnosis and provide them with support, hope, referrals and be someone who "gets" it. I feel very strongly that the stigma that surrounds mental health needs to be shattered and that through communication and understanding we will be able to get to a point where it isn't shameful to ask for help. I hope that peer counseling will give me the tools to make a difference.

I have another 40 hours of in-class instruction next week and then an apprenticeship to complete. I haven't been a student in many years - decades! I was more nervous than I cared to admit and I think I learned most about myself and my temperament. For most of my life I thought the greatest compliment I could receive was being called nice. I didn't "do" Angry and if I accidentally offended someone or, heaven forbid, hurt their feelings it was literally a hand wringing experience for me. I spent more energy figuring out how to walk on tip-toe and apologize than I did on being happy and well.

It took three years of very intense therapy for me to learn that Angry was ok and learn how to express it. It took a huge amount of support from my coworkers and good friends to bear with me through the seemingly endless tears and timidity. And once I was on a first name basis with Angry, her cousin, Pissed Off, spent a lot of time tempting me, too. But we worked all that out, Angry and I have a very respectful relationship and Pissed Off stays (mostly) to herself.

None of which has much at all to do with my class other than reminding me that lessons learned sometimes need to be revisited. And that we each have our own winding, bumpy journey that no one can do for us. But hopefully I will be able to do them WITH someone when it is too dark to walk alone.

The story behind this picture is silly - the top hand was pretty and the hand with the ring had beautiful jewelry. Mine is on the bottom, not the prettiest or most bejeweled, but the foundation which is an honor!

TG celebrates!

Today is one of my favorite days... it is my younger son's birthday! Maximo Francis De la Cruz made his debut to the world at 3:10 a.m. on Tuesday, May 20, 1997. He weighed just under 8 pounds (7 pounds 15 3/4 oz) and was 21 inches long. His dad and I, his Nana and his beloved Tia were there to welcome him.

Max will get gifts and cake and we will celebrate him today but the real gift is him and I, the recipient. I am blessed by his "old soul" and cheerful attitude. He is empathetic and kind, intuitive and smart and he has an amazing work ethic. He is protective of those he loves and cares very much about doing the right thing, about making a difference. Max is affectionate and incredibly patient with his goofy mother. I call him my "son"shine and treasure every moment with him. I cannot believe he has blessed us for 17 years, I cannot wait to see how amazing the next 17 X 17 years will be.

I love you, Max. You are truly my pride and joy and I am so glad I was chosen to be your mom. I love having this day to celebrate wonderful you!

5 months old with Aunt Linda

His first fish, Spring 2008

15th birthday, 2012

TG gets a hint of Hint Fiction

In January of 2011, at my stepmother's surprise 60th birthday party, I fell in love. Romantic huh? Except the object of my affection and desire was no mere man, rather it was a small, squarish green book titled "Hint Fiction" and in it were short stories. Short short stories. Short as in 25 words or less. Short as in magically enticing. Short as in "Wait, I want more!" The book was a gift from my father but it barely graced my stepmother's hands... I practically confiscated it and ran. No more polite conversation, no more chit-chat or cake or - gasp! - wine. I assumed my protective reading pose and went for broke.

Upon arriving home that evening I ordered my own copies, copious amounts of them. I ordered them for coworkers and friends and with which to line my bookshelf. I gave them away like candy on Halloween. And then, then I started writing them. Every where... on notepads at work, in the memo app on my phone, one in eyeliner on my makeup mirror. I couldn't get enough. And still can't, I re-read the stories over and over. I contemplate them, create endings and beginnings and people for them. And last week, I submitted two that I had written for the new contest and I am off on another "Hint Fiction" journey. This time around the stories are more confident, less melancholy, even funny (I hope!).

Try it, you'll like it. It is much easier than you first think. And you will be surprised at how addictive it is. You, too, will write them everywhere. You will find inspiration in the littlest things and begin to make sense of the biggest questions. And if you write some, share them with me, I'd love to read them. Below is one of the ones I wrote when I first caught the Hint Fiction bug:

May is Mental Health Awareness Month!

Do you know what a Serious Mental Illness (SMI) is? 

• A mental, behavioral, or emotional disorder (excluding developmental and substance use disorders);
• Diagnosable currently or within the past year;
• Of sufficient duration to meet diagnostic criteria specified within the 4th edition of theDiagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM-IV);
• Resulting in serious functional impairment, which substantially interferes with or limits one or more major life activities.

One in four adults in the United States, approximately 61.5 MILLION people, experience mental illness in a given YEAR. Over 13 million Americans live with a serious mental illness: 2.4 million with schizophrenia, 6.1 million with bipolar disorder, 14.8 million people with major depression, and 18.1 with anxiety disorders. Of those, 9.2 million have co-occurring disorders (more than one diagnosis).

Pretty scary, right? You might even think - that is a lot of crazy people in this country! Don't call them crazy though, that isn't really nice. I know, because I am one of the 9.2 million with a co-occurring diagnosis. I have Major Depressive Disorder and Generalized Anxiety Disorder. I saw my first therapist as a pre-teen. I have been suicidal. I have been a walking wreck. But I am not now. I am well, in remission. Because of organizations like NAMI (National Alliance on Mental Illness) and insurance (shout out for Kaiser Permanente Behavioral Healthcare) and family and friends who love me not despite of my illness but including my illness. Big difference there.

So why should you care about Mental Health Awareness Month? Well... being aware is a good thing. Being aware reduces stigma and being aware increases understanding. It also can save money: SMI costs $193.2 billion (with a B - $193,200,000,000.!!!) annually just in lost wages. I don't know about you but I could have so much fun with all those zeroes... even if you lopped a few off, I could still have fun. So if you don't care about mental Illness because it is the educated, empathetic thing to do, care about it because it saves a lot of moolah!

I got my statistics from NAMI's Facts and Numbers cheat sheet, read it, you will learn something, I promise. And smile at someone who is frustrating you or offer a literal or figurative hand to someone obviously struggling. Because even if someone is mentally ill (not crazy, don't forget to drop that word from your vocabulary), they are someone. Someone like me who laughs and cries and loves. Someone who works hard and appreciates naps and loves the sound of the ocean. Because I guarantee you that you know someone like me and that your kindness will be appreciated more than you could know.

Oh, one more important thing... Green is the color of Mental Health Awareness, which is why I am typing in it and wearing it, too!

TG is terribly uninspired

Or am I merely uninspiring? I am hoping it is the former but have a (not so) secret fear that it is the former. And, that my friends, just will not do.

It is similar to the statement that clothing, cars and bank accounts don't matter in the long run but having been important in the life of a child is what counts. I don't crave importance or recognition from what I say in the blog but I do wonder and worry about whether is makes a difference to anyone reading it. For equally vain reasons, I want what I say to resonate. Or inspire. Or create questions. I want for someone, somewhere to be a bit better after reading something I wrote. And that is because I believe much of my turmoil could have been eased by an "Aha" moment or two. 

By the same token, what do I really have to share? Funny stories of being incarcerated? Yep, got those in abundance. And really, they ARE funny and no, I am not being self depreciating, just finding the humor in an otherwise dreary 13 months. I have empathy for those who have been physically abused and "war" stories I can share if it helps anyone not feel alone. I have PLENTY of stories about surviving mental illness - some funny, some sad, all with a lesson, all willing to be shared even if it just helps one person, one time. And broken heart stories? If I had a nickel for every time my poor little heart was stitched back together I would be a rich woman. A. REALLY. RICH. WOMAN. I am not sure those make me unique though? Maybe the combination of them: felonious birth mother afflicted with major depressive disorder and generalized anxiety disorder at your service - oh, and, obese, she is really quite fat! does make me special in some way?

I'd much rather be special for different reasons. I want to be special because I created positive change; because I am a survivor and a good friend. I want to be special for the reasons we each do: because we ARE special. And this is something which I need to remember, that while I am one of many, I am a very special one. And it is okay to be uninspiring sometimes and to be just who I am.

TG wonders: Does Hope Float?

I thought hope floated. That it was something buoyant and strong, a force that kept the darkness and sadness at bay. But it seems that maybe hope is more fragile than I thought, that perhaps the iridescent sphere that houses hope is as fragile as soap bubbles.

My most recent post was about my rose colored glasses and what I said is still true. I do believe that the world should be a happy, beautiful place where we each can find a niche and be content. I don't hold onto the notion that we can maintain extended happiness; part of the reason we can appreciate blissful moments so much is by knowing less perfect times. Joy is sweeter when, like a perfect peach, it is savored at it's most ripe. Perhaps it isn't really hope that has failed me, perhaps it is that I haven't accepted that there are "lovers" and "lovees;" perhaps it is that I am holding on too tightly to the idea that whatever it is can work with the right combination of silliness and devotion. Perhaps though, I am the only devoted one?

As I write, I know in my bones that last sentence is the closest to the truth. I know that my continued hope and belief are not strong enough to sustain two people; deep down in my soul I know that my absence is more of a relief than my presence is a gift. And the beautiful, bubble of hope has burst... perhaps I chased it too hard or reached for it when all I should have done is appreciate it's beauty as it floated by me.

TG and her rose colored glasses

Being accused of wearing rose-colored glasses isn't usually a compliment. Traditionally, it implies that the wearer is unable to accept negativity or chooses to ignore that about life which is unpleasant and not take the necessary steps to improve situations. But that isn't why I wear rose colored glasses. I wear them because I WANT the world in which we live to be rosy. I want to be part of a community that supports all members and thrives because of that support and concern.

Our world is not always a welcome one. We live in a time where states approve the carrying of guns in bars and churches and schools but won't celebrate love unless it is between a man and a woman, preferably chaste Christian ones. We live in a world where people rally and join together to humiliate rape victims, protest the coverage of birth control methods on insurance plans, and fight to ensure no woman has control of her own body. Those same people then turn around and deny the same women assistance to get out of poverty or public mental health services to deal with the repercussions of rape. Student loan debt is crushing the dreams of young people and veterans are returning from defending our freedom to situations where they are losing their homes and can't afford to feed their families. None of these are situations that create a sense of community for me, none are "fair" but there isn't an end to them.

That is why I wear rose colored glasses. Really, truly pink ones. Because when I see my world I am saddened that I can do so little to make a difference. I can buy a fast food meal for the person who tentatively approaches me in the drive through line; I can donate to politicians that say the things in which I believe; I can volunteer my time at places that do all they can to make a dent in the disparities in our world. But in the grand scheme of things that isn't enough. My glasses are like a mask or super-heroes cape. They remind me that things can get better. And even more importantly, they remind me that it is worth the effort to make it better!

Pulling it all together

I am so excited by all the work my fabulously talented and utterly amazing friend Barbara Zuazua has done to help me design a theme for That Girl! Make sure you check out her FaceBook page - with links to her other pages. Barbara gave TG a face... and wings... and a magic wand. All of which I magically believe I have when it suits me to do, so but to see it personified is just fabulous. I can't wait to unveil it all in the coming weeks.

Before I can introduce her to the world though, I need a little help from you my dear readers. I need some ideas on how to describe TG in a short sentence or phrase. While I would be thrilled to use "Fabulous. Perfect. Amazing" and leave it at that, it isn't very descriptive. Or modest, I must remember that modesty is a very important trait to have. And one I need to cultivate. Seriously.

I have such high hopes for TG and your support means a great deal. Please don't ever hesitate to call me out and say "You are so wrong" or "You need to rethink that!" And if there is a topic near and dear to you that you would like me to talk about, please let me know. I love to know who my readers are but you can also comment anonymously. The wonder of TG is that she isn't really me. She is Barbara's talent and Nancy's friendship; she is Sarah's support and Deborah's questions. She is each of you all bundled up into the most Fabulous - Perfect - Amazing creature and I thank you all for helping me make her real.

TG has a fan!

Thank you Sarah Berger for requesting a post - you tickled my little heart!

I haven't written in a week but have been quite busy. Unfortunately not busy saving the world or starving children or abandoned puppies, just busy having fun and engaging in lots of silliness. Though I do care very much about hungry people and lost kittens and world peace, really, and I will prioritize conquering them.

We took a vacation, just 5 days, but they were practically perfect. The boys drove go-karts and rode carnival rides, I got sunburned and a tattoo. We ate at a mediocre seafood buffet but found an excellent breakfast one. We all laughed - a lot. I caught myself wishing more than once that we could just stay as we were, our own version of "Groundhog Day," even though we obviously couldn't, for reasons other than my desire to spend every dime and dollar we had.

Somehow the return to reality made what we shared even better. Being back at work, going back to school, being responsible and grocery shopping and doing laundry allows me to savor the sun on my legs, the view of the ocean early in the morning, the sound of laughter from my boys. Being given the gift of that time with people I love was something for which I am incredibly grateful.

And it is the "people I love" part that is so important. It is with and for them that this vacation was created. It was a tangible way for me to show them they matter, they are important, they are loved. Because so often in our lives we get caught up in worrying about the war in the Central African Republic or who is going to win which next election. On a daily basis we remind our children and our partners not to forget this or that and to please do that or this. And we get reminded ourselves. And we bicker over who didn't take out the trash or who is needing too much time and attention from whom. Our day to day lives, while not always unpleasant, rarely hold pieces of sparkling joy. And those five days at the beach did just that. Sparkling, multi-faceted, joy designed to show the important people in my life that I cherish them - even on the most mundane days!

TG Voted!

Yes, I know it is April not November. And that voting for a replacement County Board member may not ignite the enthusiasm in you that it did in me this morning. And yes, it was dreary, chilly, and early. But I exercised my rights and selected the name of the person in whom I was placing my trust, then confirmed that yes, I was sure, and then happily tapped "Finish." And I am proudly wearing my sticker (though it took about 15 tries to get it to display horizontally so pardon my picture!).

So why is voting such a big deal? Especially for a Board Member who will replace someone exiting and will only have a 7 month term?  Voting is a big deal because it is a BIG DEAL. Just a few days ago Anja Niedringhaus, an award winning photographer for AP, was murdered while covering elections in Afghanistan. Women can't vote in many places, including Saudia Arabia and Vatican City. And in many places other than Afghanistan, casting a ballot is taking a huge risk. That is why voting is a big deal.

And for me, voting is a big deal because for many years I couldn't. As a felon in the Commonwealth of Virginia I lost my right to vote when I was sentenced in 1994. In order to reclaim that right I had to pay all my fines and fees and then petition the Governor for the privilege to be reinstated. When I made my appeal our Governor was Bob McDonald and I wasn't sure if I would be pardoned. Thankfully I was and voted in my first presidential election in 2012 (for Barack Obama in case you couldn't guess). I was thrilled to participate and to be heard.

I don't know if my candidate will win today. I don't know if he will be on the Board long enough to make accomplish all he would like. I don't know much of anything beyond the here and now. But I do know I will always vote when given the chance. I will vote for those who no longer have the right and for those in countries where women aren't able to vote and I will vote for those who risk life and limb to be heard. I hope you will, too.

Sisters

One of my first posts when I re-started writing "That Girl" was about girlfriends. I am blessed with some very talented, very beautiful, very loving friends. The kind you can call in the middle of the night; the kind whose children you love as if they were your own and who love your children as if they were her own. Friends who make sense of things for me and color my life in the most amazing hues - no ROY G. BIV here, we are fuchsia and chartreuse, azure and marigold! Friends aren't sisters, even though many friendships are closer than many sister-ships (ha, I see Star Trek in my head now!), for me, my friends are sisters I choose.

If you read my last post you know I wasn't always (ever?) easy. And not being easy has cost me my relationships with some of my siblings. It is their choice and, while I don't think I am the same person I was when the decision was made, I try to respect that they have their reasons. One of the those siblings is my only sister. I miss having a relationship with her, I miss easy holiday visits, or at least the idea of them. While she generously shares her daughters with me and her wife couldn't be kinder, when they last visited she and I didn't even say hello. I feel like a pretty lousy older sister that she didn't even want to say "hi."

In the last couple of months though, something really special has begun happening. I have been adopted by sisters AS a sister. Women who are funny and spiritual and truly quite lovely in every way. They adopted me because their sister loves me and I her. They accepted me with cracks and bruises and closets full of skeletons. They have offered me a haven where I will always belong. They have given me a gift that is incomparable and I don't think they know how blessed I feel. 

Thank you Irene and thank you Pam for making me a part of what is so wonderful about family. Thank you for taking me at Patrice's word. Thank you for honoring me and allowing me to call you my sisters. This is better than even being a princess! 

TG waves her banner - high!

In case you are reading for the first time today, I have strong opinions. Strong opinions about which I tend to be vocal. Very vocal. And one of those opinions is that by talking about our scary, shameful, overwhelming experiences we do two things: 1) we heal ourselves a little bit by letting go and 2) we add some light to what may be an otherwise dark corner.

One of my scary and overwhelming (but not shameful!) experiences is that I have mental illness. For most of my life I have fought, flailed, floundered and finally FLOWN through my diagnosis of Major Depressive Disorder and Generalized Anxiety Disorder. I remember being 12 and visiting a counselor once a week to learn self hypnosis and drawing pictures of how I really saw myself. I remember being 16 and hospitalized for the first time, the day after Christmas. I remember being told that because I wore black trouser socks with black pants I was a perfectionist and that if I would just wear blue ones or - even riskier - mismatched shoes, I would be cured. Ummm, alrighty then - who's crazy now?

My illness manifested in many ways: I used drugs, I stole from my parents and a retail job, I was a victim of domestic violence and learned from decades of poor choices. I was one of the first inhabitants of the (then new) A...n County Detention Center. But I now very proudly work in the A...n County Government building that was built on the site of the old detention center. I talk openly about my drug use and recovery so that someone feeling hopelessly stuck will know that getting unstuck, while difficult, is possible. I talk openly about being in the emergency room with a broken nose and infected bite marks so that someone who may be unsure if their lover's touch will be loving and gentle or violent and painful, knows that she or he can move away from that person, no matter how much love they feel. I talk openly about hiding under my desk at work and not being able to get out of bed in the morning in the hopes that someone else who is afraid of nothing specific or so depressed they can't remember their last smile knows there is help available. I talk openly about as much as I can in the hope that being open, that by waving my banner, that I will be joined by others and we will start a parade. A parade of slightly bruised, wiser for the journey, laughing survivors walking with heads held high.

TG Says:

That it is ok sometimes to be contemplative. Introspective. Constructively critical of oneself. Yesterday I wrote a very honest post about not loving the body my soul inhabits. Most comments were encouraging, a few suggested I should stop feeling sorry for myself and some accused me of being attention seeking. So I deleted it. I process events and emotions through words and hope that sometimes what I share may make someone feel a little less alone. So I wasn't trying to fish for compliments or wallow in self-pity, I was trying to turn the frustration and sadness I felt into something I could express and thus let go. And by deleting my words I aborted the healing process, minimized the shame I am feeling. So here I am again...

I talked about struggles I have: to stand for more than 5 minutes, to finish a grocery shopping trip, to do my laundry because the machines are on the lower level. I shared something by which I am mortified. A young boy, about 3, recently announced to me in a mall full of people "WOW! You are huger than fat!" His parents were good parents, they were embarrassed and apologized, made him apologize. I tried to empathize: "It is confusing, isn't it? People tell you all the time to be honest but then sometimes being honest gets you in trouble. Sometimes even when something is true, it can hurt feelings." I think he took something positive away from my words, his parents were graciously relieved I hadn't been mean, but all I could think was that I am SO glad my son didn't have to witness that.

Because even more than the physical pain I feel much of the time, even more than the humiliation of having to
ask for special chairs and being dropped near the door and declining things I know I would really love to do but can't, even more than being asked by strangers how come I not worried about my health or why don't I just park at the end of the lot and walk a little more.... even more than all that, I hate that I embarrass people who love me. My sweet 16 year old son asks for tables (booths can be very, very bad for we corpulent folk!) as soon as we walk into a restaurant. He makes sure I have the cart to lean on while we shop and runs to get the car so I don't have to walk farther than my legs will allow. I have a dear friend who is wonderful when we are out and about or with my friends but we never socialize with his family or friends, it just too hard to explain why he bothers with a fat girl. I know I am gawked at and I overhear people when they whisper to others about me. When I recently had photos taken I was shocked at how big I really am. I got a terrible case of the giggles looking at one because it looked like someone had shrunk my head and balanced it on a pile of rocks and stones. But nope, regular sized head, just larger than life body.

I do like myself... really, I do. I am pretty darn smart and can be rather witty. I love to read and learn new things and while my body is rotund, God gifted me with fabulous hair and a pretty face. I have a sexy voice and a big heart - I am pretty good on the self esteem barometer (too good?). But one time I would like to be included in something, invited to belong, despite all of me that is included.