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!